


Exile

by PR Zed (przed)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 82,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Infiltration of the IRA is never going to be the easiest of undercover assignments. When it also involves winning the confidence of Republican family members who have nothing but hatred and contempt for their ex-Army, ex- CI5, cousin, Bodie finds himself tackling one of the most dangerous missions of his career, leaving Doyle alone and hurt in London, and wondering if he'll ever see his partner again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer

**Author's Note:**

> This novel was years in the making, and it would never have been completed without help from a number of people in the Pros community. These are the people who helped make the novel better, who gave my writing the tough love it needed and let me know when I need to rip things apart and start over.
> 
> Thanks must first go to Valentin, who saw this story just before ZebraCon 2003, when it was a 10,000 word fragment I'd already been plugging away at for a while, and told me that no, I couldn't finish it in another 10 pages and yes, it really needed to be a novel.
> 
> Dorinda and Suzan Lovett both saw the first complete draft of Exile. Neither of them pulled their punches when letting me know where there were plot holes and when things could be sharper.
> 
> Exile wouldn't have been nearly as good without the input of Ancasta, who saw an early draft, and gave me the key to Doyle's state of mind. Nor without the comments of FJBryan, who kept a sharp eye out for issues of structure and shoddy spy craft.
> 
> Callisto and Sally Fell both were kind enough to perform Brit checks on the final manuscript, and saved this Canadian from herself many times over. (The final version uses Canadian spelling, which is mostly, though not entirely, like its British cousin.)
> 
> m. butterfly did the final copyedit, and used her mad editing skills to unearth typos and track down errant punctuation.
> 
> Flamingo helped immeasurably with the production of the original zine by offering the services of her printer and acting as a very kind liaison.
> 
> And finally, Lorraine Brevig was generous enough to agree to illustrate my humble tome and her stunning work now graces the story. I cannot thank her enough for her efforts and hope you enjoy her art as much as I do.
> 
> June 2009

Doyle wasn't sure what woke him. He lay on his back, eyes wide open, wondering what had disturbed his sleep: dream or nightmare or a backfiring car. Night had dispersed the heat of the day and a chill had raised goose flesh on the one arm thrown free of the covers. The grey half-light of the pre-dawn sky hitting the blinds cast stripes of light and dark across the room.

There was a rustling sound, making Doyle sit up and turn to the man beside him. Whatever had woken him had not affected his partner. Bodie was still asleep, hair tousled, covers pulled all the way up to his nose. The sight made Doyle smile. Even in late summer, even sleeping, Bodie didn't like to expose an inch more skin than was absolutely necessary. Well, most of the time, at least.

Last night, though, he'd seen quite a different Bodie. A Bodie who'd frantically torn off Doyle's shirt, even as Doyle had pushed Bodie's trousers down to his ankles. A Bodie who'd been wild-eyed and naked before they even reached the door of the bedroom. A Bodie who'd lain beneath him, creamy expanse of his chest exposed, moaning as Doyle explored his skin with fingers and lips and tongue.

He ruffled Bodie's hair, enjoying the sensation of the silken strands, still astounded by what this man could do to him. He'd never felt pleasure with another like he did with Bodie, never before achieved the euphoria that Bodie could bring him with mouth and hand and cock. 

And heart.

Because that was it, wasn't it? He loved the bastard. Loved fucking him, loved being fucked by him, and just fucking loved him.

He loved lying with him after sex, feeling Bodie's strength surrounding him, and offering his own strength in return. Loved listening to his breathing drop into the easy rhythm of sleep. Even loved the feel of his morning beard and the taste of his morning breath.

Christ, he was hopeless.

But not so hopeless that he was willing to confess it to Bodie. 

Not yet.

Soon.

For now he wanted to enjoy his secret, enjoy the knowledge that the pleasure he got from Bodie went beyond the purely carnal. He wanted a few more days to turn that knowledge over in his mind, aware that he shared it with no other human being, not even the half-Irish bastard sleeping next to him. A few more days to let the anticipation build, to burnish his emotions to a fine sheen so they'd be a golden hue when he at last presented them to Bodie.

He reached out and let his fingertips lightly brush against Bodie's cheek, allowing a fond look to form on his face. Bodie stirred under his touch, lips pursing and eyelids fluttering. Still muzzy and soft with sleep, Bodie looked at him with eyes more grey than blue in the early morning light.

"What time is it?"

Doyle let a finger drift to Bodie's lip before answering. "Five. I think."

"Christ," Bodie said, drawing out the word into long, expressive syllables. "What the hell are you doing awake?"

"Just admiring the view, mate."

A sleepy grin lit up Bodie's face. "I know I'm beautiful, Sunshine, but you don't have to stare. I'm not going anywhere."

"Daft git," Doyle said.

"I'm not the one waking up before the crack of dawn when only God and Cowley know when we're next going to get some kip." Bodie reached up and pulled him down to the pillow. "Come back to sleep."

Doyle grumbled but didn't make a move to sit up again. And when Bodie threw an arm around him and buried his face in Doyle's neck, he didn't even try to hide the smile on his face.

He would tell Bodie he loved him soon. Not that he imagined it would be a big surprise to Bodie. They'd been together this way for nearly six months, and together as partners for a bloody long time. Christ, was it really eight years? Doyle reckoned that his feelings must be visible in every action, in every look he gave the great lummox at his side. He thought he saw the same emotion in Bodie's face whenever he caught him looking in Doyle's direction. At least he hoped so.

Soon he would speak his mind, his heart, but in the meantime they had no need for words.

* * *

The sun rose orange and heavy on the horizon, bringing with it the promise of yet another sweltering August day. Its light hit the headquarters of CI5, where the lights were still burning in the office of George Cowley. CI5's controller sat at his desk, jacket and tie long since removed in deference to the summer heat that had stayed within the building even in the dead of night, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep. His night had been spent scouring the briefing from the Home Office, the reports from MI5, the records of his own people and their skills, and trying to come up with an alternative, a different solution from the one the boffins had arrived at. But the answer was clear and obvious and there was no way around it.

He had no choice. 

Something bad was brewing on the Irish front, and the Home Office had asked for one of his agents. A very specific agent, with Special Forces training, mercenary experience, and Irish blood in his veins. He'd devoted all his intellect, ability and experience, skill at double- and triple-think to the task, but he still could find no better plan than that of the Home Office, and no man better suited to the job than Bodie.

He closed the files in front of him and swore under his breath. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he wondered why the hell he continued to do this job when it so regularly asked him to make such sacrifices. But even before he completed the thought, he knew why. These sacrifices were necessary to advance a greater good and so he would do the job and do it well.

He would do it, but only if his sacrificial victim was willing. He would not send one of his lads into a hell such as this without giving him a choice. Especially not Bodie.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he looked at his watch. Only two hours ‘til his agents would be checking in. Two hours until he had to tear apart one man's life for the good of the many. Two hours until he left that man's colleagues, friends, and especially his partner angry and confused and searching for answers.

Cowley stood, cursing the leg that seemed to ache more each day, and wondering when it was that he had started feeling so damned old.

* * *

When they arrived at headquarters, Bodie and Doyle found themselves with nothing to do. They'd finished even the hated paperwork for yesterday's operation, and there was nothing waiting for them on the call sheet.

Giving thanks that Cowley had neglected to throw them at the Records department, they decided to await what the day would bring them in the rest room. Doyle sprawled across a battered armchair while Bodie mucked about with the tea behind him.

"Get that down your neck." Bodie stuck a mug in Doyle's hand and then sat across from him.

"Tea on a hot day like this?" Doyle said, even as he took a noisy slurp. "You must be mad."

"Best way to stay cool. Drinking something hot."

"Like I said: mad."

"You're my partner. Must make you mad too."

"I s'pose we're all mad in this mob," Doyle allowed. He contemplated launching a tirade against the heat, but he couldn't work up the enthusiasm for it. When it came right down to it, he enjoyed the heat. It was rare enough in London, even in summer, and he luxuriated in it when it happened. And there were added compensations for surviving the heat. Bodie, for one. Let it get too hot and Bodie stopped hiding his skin like a retiring virgin. Made Doyle wonder how Bodie had dressed in Africa. Had he buttoned up like a Victorian explorer, or had he exposed chest and arms to the equatorial sun? He stared at his partner speculatively.

"Oi," Bodie said, giving his foot a kick. "What's going on in that woolly head of yours?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "What do you reckon the Cow's got planned for us next?"

"A trip to the Canaries wouldn't go amiss," Bodie said with a grin.

"Prat," Doyle said, but couldn't help but laugh as an image of Bodie on a tropical beach, wearing nothing but swimming trunks and a smile popped into his head. Be worth any assignment Cowley could throw at them to see that.

"What you laughing at?"

"Nothing," Doyle said, suppressing a smile. "Nothing at all."

"You want to keep it that way," Bodie said suspiciously.

They were interrupted by Betty. Cowley's assistant entered the room cloaked in the air of self-possession and impatience she always seemed to wear when dealing with members of the A squad. "Bodie, you're wanted in Mr. Cowley's office right away."

"He no doubt wants to commend me on a job well done," Bodie said with a grin.

"Must have the wrong man, then, mustn't he," Doyle said, automatically rising to join his partner. "I'll have to straighten him out." 

"Bodie alone, Doyle. Mr. Cowley was very specific."

Doyle eased back into his chair and waved his partner out the door. "On your bike, my son. You must have done something very bad indeed."

"I'm as innocent as a school boy," Bodie said, batting his eyes.

"When I was a school boy, I was never bloody innocent."

"I'll just bet you weren't," Bodie said, winking as he sailed out the door, Betty close behind him.

"Betty," Doyle called her back into the rest room. "Any idea what the Cow wants with our blue-eyed boy?"

"No idea. He's barely said two words to me all morning." She got a thoughtful look in her eye. "In fact, I'm beginning to wonder if he wasn't here all night."

"He been working on anything special?"

"You know I can't tell you that, 4.5. Even if I knew. Which I don't." She turned to leave, then stopped. "The one thing I can tell you is that he got a package from the Home Office last night, just before I left."

"They probably want to know how many pencils we used last month."

Betty allowed herself the briefest laugh. "You're probably right," she said, then she was out the door.

Doyle took a gulp of tea and sat back, a worm of worry beginning to wriggle in his gut. He never liked it when politicians got involved with their work. Politicians were as likely to pack you off in irons as give you a medal. A package from the Home Office could only be bad news for someone. He hoped it wasn't Bodie.

Just as Doyle was about to settle into a good brood about what might be going on in Cowley's inner sanctum, there was a commotion in the hallway. Five agents, led by Murphy, burst into the room. The newcomers were eager to share their story of a stakeout gone stupidly wrong.

"Scotland Yard gave us the wrong bloody address," Murphy complained.

"They had us watching a little OAP, if you can believe it," Anson said. "She hit Murphy with her walking stick for tramping on her roses."

"I think I've got a permanent bruise," Murphy said, rubbing his arm. "I may never play the violin again."

"You never played before," a chorus of voices yelled out.

Doyle joined in the laughter, ribbing Murphy, Anson and the lot of them, his concern about what Cowley might want with his partner pushed aside for the moment, but not forgotten.

* * *

Faced with an unusually grim-looking George Cowley, Bodie was beginning to wish **he'd** been forgotten. The Cow was firmly ensconced in his office, tie and jacket on in spite of the rising heat, and a glass of scotch in front of him. At nine in the morning. "Isn't it a bit early for that, sir?" Bodie asked, nodding his head in the direction of the glass.

"Sit down, lad." Cowley's voice was tight with strain. Bodie knew without being told that this was going to be anything but a friendly visit with Uncle George.

He sat down, his back ramrod straight, his hands clutched tightly at the arms of the chair.

After several long moments, Cowley pulled himself from whatever thoughts had taken him away, took a last swallow of scotch and looked Bodie straight in the eye. "We have a situation," Cowley began. "MI5 are on to a very nasty faction of the IRA. The Home Office wants to send someone with very specific skills undercover."

"What skills would those be, sir?"

"Special Services training combined with a dubious past."

"Sounds like me." Bodie kept his voice steady, but he was beginning to feel a chill run down his spine.

"They're also looking for someone with an Irish background." Cowley paused and looked down at the folder in front of him. "With a very specific Irish background."

"Christ," Bodie said. Because he knew, knew in his blood, in his bones, what this had to be about. "You can't be serious."

"Deadly serious." Cowley looked at him with a sympathy that was nearly Bodie's undoing, and passed him the folder. "This contains the details on an IRA brigade in South Armagh. A brigade that includes two brothers with the family name of Bodie."

"Noel and Liam," Bodie said, as matter-of-factly as he could manage. "My cousins."

"Yes. Your cousins. There have been rumours that their group planned dozens of raids in the area, but they never leave any evidence behind. Or witnesses. And worse, there's word that they're planning on bringing a campaign of bombing to England itself. To London."

"And they want me to act as a double agent with those two lunatics?"

"That is the plan. They've asked for you specifically." Cowley stood up and stared out the window. Bodie could see the strain in the Cow's shoulders, the corded tendons in his neck.

"Well, it's a fucking stupid plan, sir. Pardon my language, but those two couldn't stand me when we were kids. They hate my guts now. I mean, the whole family disowned me when I joined the British Army—collaborator was the least of the things they called me—but those two took it to a whole new level. And when I joined the SAS, they started sending me regular death threats."

"Bodie-"

But Bodie was on a roll and would not be stopped. "They're still sending 'em. Regular as clockwork, always on my birthday. Know what this year's said?"

"Bodie-"

"Dear Bodie. Sorry to see you've made it through another year. Hope it won't happen again. Your not-so-loving cousins, Noel and Liam."

"Bodie, I don't-"

"And you want me to infiltrate those mad bastards? I'd be dead as soon as they saw me."

"Bodie, if you're quite finished." Cowley looked at him expectantly. 

Bodie took a deep breath and held his tongue, assured in his conviction that there was nothing Cowley could say that would convince him to take on this assignment. "Yes, sir."

"First of all, your relationship, or lack thereof, with the Irish side of your family is well known. But it's the only way of getting in with this group. The South Armagh IRA doesn't let in anyone who isn't family, and you're the only qualified person in all of the British forces with a family connection to these men. And secondly, MI5 have come up with a way to get them to accept you." Cowley's eyes dropped to the desk, the second time they'd done so since Bodie had entered the room. And that was telling. Whatever he said, whatever orders he gave his men, Cowley always had the courage to meet their eyes when he did it. 

"I'm not going to like this at all, am I, sir?"

"Not at all, Bodie." Cowley raised his head and Bodie was shocked at how old the Cow looked in the morning light. "Not one little bit."

Bodie was never one to avoid hard truths. He'd always preferred to face his troubles head on, reckoning that if he knew what was coming he could prepare for it. Find a way to survive it.

"Go on, then. Tell me."

"They're going to besmirch your good name, Bodie. You're to be accused of corruption, of treason. MI5 has supplied the evidence. Every police officer and intelligence operative in the British Isles will be looking for you, every newspaper will publish the details of your heinous crimes. Facing arrest and prosecution, you will seek sanctuary with the two people you know will give shelter to a fugitive from British justice."

"Noel and Liam."

"Precisely."

"Christ, you don't ask much."

"I know exactly what I'm asking, Bodie. Exactly. And I also want you to know that you don't have to take this assignment. If you don't agree, then the plan doesn't go forward. The false evidence against you will be destroyed and no one will ever mention this again."

"Then my answer is no," Bodie said quickly. He held Cowley's eyes in a hard stare, but this time Cowley didn't look away.

"Before you say no, I want you to know what's at stake." Cowley reached over and opened the file in front of him. The file was filled with photographs: pictures of bombed out cars and ragged body parts, pictures of bloody corpses in fields and in bogs. "The men we're after are ruthless. They've killed often and efficiently. And they're escalating their violence. If we don't stop them they _will_ get a bomb on English soil and they _will_ kill more innocent people."

"And I'm the only one who can do this?"

"Much as I wish you weren't. These men are cautious. As I said before, they only recruit those related by blood, men whose families they've known for generations. The SAS stopped seriously trying to penetrate the cell when Captain Nairac was killed in ‘77. MI5 has already lost two agents this year who tried to infiltrate them."

"Lost." Bodie choked on the euphemism.

"All right, they were killed. And I won't lie to you; their deaths weren't easy."

"And you want to put me in their hands." Bodie could feel a thin edge of hysteria rising in his breast. He tried to stamp it out but it coiled around him, smothering his breath, causing his heart rate to spike.

In front of him, Cowley's eyes softened in sympathy. "I don't ask this lightly, lad. I was up all night trying to come up with another solution. But there is no other solution. No other person I can ask. We must get this group. They're the worst we've seen: ruthless, smart and completely committed to their cause."

Bodie stared out the window, his eye caught by a pigeon flying against the gunmetal-grey sky. Just about now he would have done anything to trade places with that ratty-looking bird. Would have preferred to spend his days cadging crumbs in Trafalgar Square to facing the IRA on their own turf, to confronting the family that he'd long since abandoned, the family that wanted him dead.

But he wasn't a pigeon; he was a man. A man who knew his duty and would do it, no matter what the cost. A man who would take on the villains and fight the good fight even if it tore his life apart. And that thought led to another, of the other man who would be affected by Cowley's mad scheme.

"Can I tell Doyle? About the assignment?"

The answer was immediate and expected. "No. Only two members of MI5 and I are to have knowledge of this operation."

Bodie sighed. That made it even worse, that Doyle wouldn't know the truth, that he might just believe the lies about him. An image formed in his mind of Doyle hovering over him this morning, a smiling guardian angel with tousled hair and a stubbled face. If he agreed, if he went forward, chances were he'd never see that look on Doyle's face again. He might die with Doyle thinking him a traitor. A high price to pay. And yet a higher price would be exacted if he refused and had to watch as blood flowed in London's streets, knowing he could have prevented it.

He wasn't entirely sure why he said what he did. It might have been that he didn't want to die with no one knowing what existed between him and Doyle. It might have been that he wanted Cowley to realize exactly what he was asking of the both of them. Whatever the reason, the words emerged from his mouth unrehearsed.

"We're sleeping together, you know. Me and Doyle." Cowley stared across the desk at him with an expression that was absolute in its unreadability. Faced with that utterly impassive visage, Bodie found the words pouring from him in a flood. "We're not a security risk. I hope you know that, sir. Neither of us would give a damn about blackmail. But I wondered...if something happens to me. Would you..." Bodie found his throat tightening, the flood of words drying up as quickly as it had appeared. Swallowing, he forced himself to continue. "Would you tell him what I was doing. And let him know I was thinking about him. That he meant a lot to me."

It wasn't quite a romantic declaration of love—he'd never gone quite that far even with his birds—but it was something. And it made him feel a little better that there would be someone to speak to Doyle, even Cowley, if, or more likely when, this all went pear-shaped.

Cowley was still holding his gaze, but his expression had softened. Bodie wondered if it was sympathy he could see in the Old Man's eyes. He hoped it wasn't pity. He couldn't have borne that.

"Aye, if anything goes wrong, I'll talk to Doyle. I'll tell him everything. Though I trust I'll have no need." Cowley paused for a moment before continuing. "And I know about the two of you. And know you are neither of you a security risk, or I'd have had you both up in front of me long before this." There was a touch of the old fire there, Bodie noted with relief. "Does this mean you'll accept the assignment?"

"Yes, sir. I'll do it."

"Good lad," Cowley said. He nodded at the folder in front of Bodie. "That contains everything we know about the South Armagh group. Current information on your cousins and their compatriots. Their homes, their meeting places, even their locals. There's also information that can be safely revealed to the IRA without damaging any current op. You can use that to gain their trust. There are three dead drops in the area. You'll use those for regular reports. And finally, there's a contact number, a secure line to me. The IRA will have most phone lines in the area bugged, so that's only for use before you enter Armagh or in the direst emergency. Memorize the lot and then burn it." He handed over an even thicker envelope. "And that's your bankroll, so you can keep life and soul together until you join our merry band of terrorists."

"Who's doing the pick up at the dead drops?" Bodie had never liked using that bit of spy craft. Felt too much like dropping your reports off a cliff.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Bodie didn't even try to hide the fury in his voice. "You're asking me to trust the op, trust my life to some bloke, and you don't even know who it is?"

"MI5 didn't tell me and I didn't ask." Cowley held up a hand to stop the rebellion Bodie could feel welling up inside him. "They had a hard enough time inserting someone to do even that much, Bodie. All information is need-to-know."

"Christ," Bodie said, hating that his one secure contact was to be a faceless, invisible ghost, even as he understood the operational necessity of it all. "When do I start?"

Cowley's answer was one short, stark word. "Now."

"Now?" Bodie hadn't quite expected that. He thought he'd have more time, one more day of normalcy before the insanity began. Seems he wasn't even to be granted that.

"I'm afraid so. You're to leave right away. Clear out of your flat and find your own way over to Ireland. I'll be announcing that you've been suspended, pending investigation of corruption charges. There'll be a warrant for your arrest by the end of the day. You need to be underground well before then."

"Christ," Bodie said under his breath. He felt like he did just before an op, but this time there was no immediate enemy to fight. He could feel his heart beating triple time in his chest, could feel adrenaline flooding his system. Fine tremors began to run down his arms, his hands, and his breath came in short, gasping spasms.

Something was placed in his hand. He looked down to find cut crystal and amber liquid. Cowley hovered at his shoulder.

"Get yourself around that, lad."

Bodie wasted no time in following that order, downing the scotch in one burning swallow. He took in a deep breath and felt his heart begin to slow, felt the trembling in his hands fade. One more breath, and he was thinking clearly again. And that let him see that there was one last problem with the Cow's bloody scheme. "He'll come after me, you know," Bodie said. "Doyle will," he clarified, though both of them knew whom he meant.

"I'll keep him here as long as I can," Cowley said, nodding. "But you need to be out of the flat before he gets there."

"He won't believe the charges."

"He won't be able to ignore the evidence we give him."

"Then he'll hunt me down."

"I'll make sure he doesn't have time to hunt down a hot dinner, let alone a rogue agent."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?" Bodie was all too aware of the bitterness staining his voice.

"Thinking of everything is in my job description, Bodie," Cowley said, more than an edge in his voice. Several long moments passed, then the look in Cowley's eyes softened slightly. "You know I'm only asking this of you because it's absolutely necessary?"

"I know, sir." And Bodie did know. Knew that having to do this tore away a little more of the humanity that George Cowley clung to as his defence against the savagery he fought. None of which made what he was being asked to do any easier.

"I'd best be off." Bodie stood and made his slightly unsteady way towards the door, the op file clutched tightly in one hand.

"Godspeed, lad," Cowley said quietly.

Bodie could think of nothing he could say that wouldn't sound soft, so he just nodded and closed the door quietly behind him.

He avoided looking at Betty on the way out, just as he avoided the rest room where Doyle was waiting. As he fled down the stairway, Ray's voice drifted down to him, the words indistinct, though Bodie could hear laughter lurking beneath them.

A multitude of regrets assailed him as he left the building and emerged out into the summer heat. Regret that this bloody job was necessary and that he was so bloody good at it. Regret that he was the best person for this miserable op. Regret that Doyle would not be backing him up. Regret that he couldn't even say goodbye to the lads. Or to Doyle. Most of all, he was beset by regret that soon, very soon indeed, Raymond Doyle was going to have every reason in the world to hate William Andrew Philip Bodie.

* * *

There were few things on earth that could disturb the perfect equanimity of Alec Murphy. He cultivated calm the way some men cultivated their gardens: with care and diligence and a hint of satisfaction. But being called into the Cow's office by an uneasy-looking Betty had put a thin crack down the façade of his self-control.

He approached the hallowed room with an unfamiliar trepidation. And that feeling increased tenfold when he saw the thunderclouds that had taken up residence on Cowley's brow.

"Sit down Murphy." Cowley gestured at the chair in front of his desk. "I've got a new assignment for you, and it's not going to be a pleasant one."

"They're never pleasant, sir," Murphy ventured. "That's why they land on our doorstep."

"Aye, but this is worse than usual." Cowley unlocked a drawer and pulled out a file folder. "This involves one of our own." Cowley placed the folder in front of Murphy as if it were a snake poised to strike. And given the look on Cowley's face, Murphy suspected that the most poisonous viper in the world might be a preferable alternative to what lurked inside that manila folder.

He blinked as he read the name on the file—W.A.P. Bodie—but showed no other emotion as he opened it and began reading. Murphy was a realist, always willing to face home truths, no matter how bitter. He allowed himself no illusions, no sugar-coating, no rose-coloured glasses. But even so, the contents of this file shocked him.

Bodie accused of corruption. Accused of selling information to the very men they were fighting against. Accused of betraying fellow agents. All the evidence, every last scrap of it, damned Bodie as a traitor.

Murphy turned the last page in the file and looked up. Cowley's face was stone, betraying not a shred of emotion, though that in itself was telling.

"Is it true, sir?" Murphy couldn't help asking the question. The contents of the file upset everything he'd thought he'd known about a colleague and a friend.

"You've seen the file. What do you think?"

"I think the evidence looks bad for Bodie."

"It is that."

"But is it true?"

"It's exactly what it looks like," Cowley said, his voice brittle as glass. A lesser man might have flinched at Cowley's tone. Murphy merely swallowed.

"What happens now?"

"Bodie has been suspended, without pay. I'm expecting charges from Scotland Yard by the end of the day."

"We're not dealing with this ourselves?"

"I don't want to be accused of a conflict of interest. Everything must appear absolutely above board."

"Don't we usually clean our own doorstep, sir? If you don't mind me saying."

"I do mind, 6.2." Cowley snapped out the words. "And I have my reasons. You'll just have to accept that they're good ones." 

"Yes, sir." Murphy sat for a moment, still overcoming his shock, and then one further question occurred to him. "Why show me this alone?"

"Because we have a problem besides Bodie's betrayal."

Cowley didn't have to say anything more for Murphy to understand what he meant. "Doyle."

"Doyle," Cowley repeated. "He's going to take this badly. I don't want to lose two agents because of one's treachery. I need someone to keep an eye on Doyle."

Murphy nodded, accepting the necessity of the assignment even as he wondered what deity he'd irritated badly enough to land him up to his neck in this nightmare. "What do you want me to do?"

"You're partnered with 4.5 until further notice. Keep a sharp eye on him for the next 48 hours. I don't want him making any contact with Bodie. There are to be no charges of interference with a Scotland Yard investigation."

Murphy agreed but secretly wondered how the hell anyone was supposed to stop Ray Doyle from doing something he'd set his mind on. And Murphy could guarantee he'd set his mind on finding Bodie after reading the contents of Bodie's file. Then again, what George Cowley didn't know wouldn't hurt him. And there was something about this whole situation that put Murphy's teeth on edge, starting with letting the Yard deal with one of CI5's own.

Cowley fixed Murphy with a steely glare. "There are to be no mistakes, 6.2. No blunders, no gaffes. Keep Doyle away from Bodie."

"Yes, sir." Murphy fixed the Cow with his blandest expression and hoped his boss couldn't sense the beginnings of rebellion that lurked behind it. 

"Good." Cowley straightened the papers in front of him, and if he hadn't known better, Murphy would have sworn he saw the merest scrap of nervousness in their boss. But a nervous Cowley was an absolute impossibility, so he put it down to his own imagination.

Cowley flicked the switch on his intercom. "Betty, I want you to call in 4.5. Immediately."

Murphy wriggled uncomfortably in his chair and waited for the true nightmare to begin.

* * *

Doyle was so engrossed in taking the piss out of Anson that he barely noticed when Betty summoned Murph out of the rest room. After a time, the hilarity of cutting down Anson and the others lost its attraction, and he stretched out in his favourite chair. He was impatiently wondering when Bodie was going to return from his confab with the Cow when Betty poked her head through the door.

"Doyle, Mr. Cowley wants to see you."

"All right, love." Doyle pushed himself out of the chair with his usual grace. "This lot's getting a bit dull, anyway." His words earned him rude hand gestures all round. He ignored them and followed Betty out into the hall. "There something big on, then? Something that takes Bodie and Murphy and me and all?"

"I'm sure I don't know." Betty maintained her usual inscrutable demeanour, but Doyle sensed that there was just a little bit of jumpiness underneath her manner. And that made him very uneasy indeed.

His unease only increased when he opened Cowley's door and found Murph waiting, but not his partner.

"Where's Bodie?"

"Sit down, Doyle," Cowley said in a tone that made it clear he would brook no opposition.

Doyle did not sit and he most definitely did not let the Cow's attitude shake him. "I asked where's Bodie?" He looked over at Murph and felt his own anxiety ratchet up a hundred-fold when Murph kept his eyes firmly directed at the floor.

"And I asked you to sit down, 4.5." Cowley's own temper flared briefly before being tamped down again. "This is going to be hard enough as it is. Don't make it any harder."

"What's going to be hard?" Doyle asked as he sank down in the empty chair in front of Cowley's desk.

"Read this." Cowley passed him a file across the desk. Doyle took it without thinking. As he opened the file to the first page, he thought he saw an impossible glimmer of pity in Cowley's eyes. He'd only flipped through a few pages before he knew why the Cow was sparing any sympathy on him.

Bodie, a traitor. Fucking hell.

The pictures he ignored. It was easy enough to get pictures of CI5 agents with villains. The bank account statements were more problematic, but still not damaging. Bodie had money left from his time in Africa – Doyle had always suspected it was rather a lot – and it could have just been that. But then there were the transcripts. Page after page of Bodie talking to foreign agents and local villains, arranging to sell information on CI5 ops. Doyle recognized names from several failed ops, including one on which he'd come damn close to having his head blown off. He thought back to that day, Bodie hunched over him with a look that Doyle had thought was concern. Now he wondered if it had been guilt.

"The transcripts, sir. You've heard the tapes?"

"Yes, Doyle."

"No chance they've been doctored?"

"No chance at all." Cowley's voice was implacable.

"Christ." He threw the file down on the desk and ran a hand through his hair. He knew Bodie couldn't be a traitor. Knew it in the same way he knew he loved the bastard. But the contents of that file...there was nothing there, no chink in the evidence, nothing to even suggest that Bodie wasn't guilty of all the crimes he stood accused of. Nothing except Doyle's confidence that the man he knew was incapable of such betrayal.

"It can't be true," he finally said.

"I assure you it is." Cowley's voice was completely without doubt, the voice of doom.

"You must be bloody wrong." Doyle was on his feet and yelling. "Bodie wouldn't do any of that. Not the Bodie I know."

"I know how you feel, lad, but you must believe the evidence."

"You don't know how I feel. You couldn't." He felt as though he'd stumbled through the looking glass into a nightmare world where nothing made sense and firmly held beliefs were turned upside down. He felt as if he were drowning. "Where's Bodie now?" He had to find Bodie. Bodie would explain things, tell him it was all a mistake.

"Bodie is on suspension. You're to have no contact with him."

"You're fuckin' insane if you think you can keep me away from him."

"Doyle, calm down." Murphy stood and put his hand on Doyle's shoulder. Doyle didn't even think, just struck out. The next thing he knew, Murphy was laid out on the floor, blood trickling from his nose.

"Doyle!" Cowley's voice was hard as flint, and his eyes looked harder still, but Doyle wasn't going to be stopped by anyone.

"I'm going after him. And if you want to stop me, it's going to take a bullet in my back." He turned on his heel and tore through the door, slamming it viciously behind him. He only peripherally noted the look of shock on Betty's face and the other agents' heads poking out of doorways as he ran down the stairs and out to the car pool.

During the drive to Bodie's flat, Doyle kept up a monologue of denial. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Cowley was mistaken; MI5 were lying bastards; Special Branch were moronic gits. He would find Bodie at his flat, drinking a can of lager and asking him if he'd rather watch the telly or snog. But all his hopes fled when he used his key and opened the door to Bodie's domain.

The flat had the sterile feel of an abandoned place.

There was no jacket hung in the hallway, no key ring tossed onto the small table in the entrance way, no motorcycle boots taking up space in the boot tray.

"Bodie, you Scouse bastard, where are you?" Doyle called down the hall. Only the hollow echo of an empty flat answered him. Dread forming a black stone in his gut, he moved through each room, finding only the CI5 provided furnishings and a few odds and sods that Bodie obviously hadn't considered important enough to take with him. His clothes were missing, no doubt packed into the two suitcases that were nowhere to be found. His guns were gone too, the personal ones not provided by Cowley and CI5, as were the few slim volumes of poetry that were the only books Bodie cared about, the ones that had seen him through Africa and the SAS and CI5.

Everything Bodie considered important was gone; all that he treasured had disappeared. Or almost all.

In the lounge, Doyle found the one personal item that Bodie had left in the flat: a picture of the two of them that Murph had taken on a long-ago outing to Greenwich. They were pratting about on the deck of the Cutty Sark, arms around each other, both their faces lit up like Christmas trees. They hadn't started fucking yet, wouldn't for years, but even in those early days the affection between them had been obvious.

Doyle had got the picture from Murph after the penny had dropped and they'd both realized what they meant to each other. He'd blown it up, put it in a simple silver frame he'd found in an antique shop on Portobello Road, and given it to Bodie on his last birthday. His gift to Bodie and it was sitting in this empty flat, abandoned and forlorn. Just like he was.

A folded piece of paper tucked under the frame caught his eye, and he picked it up without thinking as his heart tried to catch up with what his brain was telling him. That Bodie had left, that he'd abandoned him. And if Cowley was to be believed, and Doyle was no longer sure he shouldn't be, then Bodie had betrayed them all, betrayed him, for money.

He opened the slip of paper and found on it three words, written in Bodie's near-illegible scrawl: "Take care, Sunshine." Three words to sum up their partnership. Three words to sunder their friendship. Three words to kill the love that he had only just begun to feel confident was growing between them.

There was a crash and then the picture was lying across the room, its glass shattered into hundreds of glittering fragments, the frame bent with the force of its impact against the wall.

The shattering of the glass seemed to shatter something equally brittle inside Doyle and unleashed the fury always lurking within him. He turned into a whirlwind of destruction, smashing anything that was breakable, overturning anything that wasn't. He only stopped when there was nothing left to break, nothing that hadn't been tipped or toppled. He stood in the middle of the devastation, breath heaving in his chest, sweat running down his back, hands trembling with rage still unspent.

A sound behind him stirred him back into action. Drawing his gun, Doyle whirled and aimed it at the intruder, hoping it was Bodie as much as he feared it.

Instead of his partner—no, ex-partner, he reminded himself—Murphy stared back at him, hands up in the universal sign of surrender.

"It's only me, Doyle. You can put the gun away."

Doyle said nothing, but thumbed the safety on and slid the weapon into his holster.

"Christ, what happened to this lot?" Murphy picked his way through broken furniture and shards of glass.

"What do you think?" Doyle snapped out.

Murphy whistled. "I don't fancy being the one to tell Cowley about this."

"Oh, don't worry. _I'm_ going to tell Cowley about this. And a lot more besides." Doyle tried to move past Murph and was blocked by an outthrust arm. "Are you going to move that arm, or am I going to break it?"

"You're not going anywhere in this temper, mate. And I'm certainly not letting you near Cowley."

Doyle leaned in close to Murphy's face. "Just how do you plan on stopping me?"

Murphy didn't say a word. One second he was standing in Doyle's path; the next he'd grabbed the front of Doyle's jacket and swept his feet out from under him. Pinned to the floor, Doyle struggled to shift the bastard, but Murphy had several stone on him at least and was using the weight advantage to keep him trapped.

"Let me up, Murph."

"Not until you're thinking clearly."

"I'll give you clear thinking." Doyle lashed out with his one free hand, only to find it trapped as well. "Let go of me, you bastard."

Murphy's face was infuriatingly calm. "You're not going anywhere until you've thought this through. What are you going to do? Threaten Cowley? Better men than you have tried that."

"Then I'll resign."

"And what will that get you? A place on the dole and no closer to Bodie."

"What would you suggest, precisely?" Doyle could hear the frustration in his own voice and briefly wondered what it must sound like to Murph. Anger? Desperation? Fear?

"Stay with CI5."

"Why would I do a bloody stupid thing like that?"

"You quit and you're just another civilian. Stay on the squad and you have the squad's resources behind you."

"What do I care about the squad's resources?"

"Can you think of a better way to find Bodie?"

Doyle fixed Murph with a sceptical glare. "And Cowley's just going to let me look for Bodie."

"Cowley doesn't have to know."

"You're daft," Doyle said and renewed his efforts to free himself. Murphy finally released his hold and rolled off him. Doyle scrambled away from Murphy, and they sat, leaning against opposite walls of the lounge, the remains of Bodie's destroyed furniture between them. Doyle panted, recovering from the struggle while Murphy looked at him with his usual infuriating calm. "Why are you being so helpful?" Doyle asked. "I mean, I'm not stupid. I know that the Cow must have paired us up so you could keep an eye on me. Keep me away from Bodie. Why aren't you doing that?"

"Bodie's my friend, too," Murphy said matter-of-factly. "I don't like seeing him thrown to the wolves and jackals any more than you do."

"Is he? Being thrown to the wolves?" Doyle wasn't sure what he thought anymore. He just knew that he was hurting.

"Think, Doyle. When has Cowley willingly let another organization clean up after CI5?"

"Never."

"Exactly. There's something going on that the Cow hasn't told us. And I, for one, want to know what that is."

"So, you'll turn a blind eye if I start poking around?"

"I'll do better than that. I'll help. Discreetly, of course."

"Of course." Doyle felt the dread that had settled in his gut begin to lift just slightly. Then one last thought occurred to him. "Murph, what if this isn't a fit-up? What if Bodie really is guilty?"

Murphy stood, brushed himself off and pulled Doyle to his feet. "Then, we do our job."

"Do our job." Doyle wiped his hands on his trousers and frowned grimly. "Sometimes I hate this bloody job."

"That makes two of us. But it's never stopped us before."

"Never been after Bodie before, have we?"

Murphy had the good sense not to even try to answer that question.

* * *

It took Bodie less than half an hour to clear out of the flat. Less than thirty minutes to pack up the accumulated belongings of thirty-five years. Less than thirty minutes to abandon a life. He managed to pack almost everything he cared about, clothes and books and guns, into two medium-sized suitcases, thankful that he'd always been one to travel lightly. 

There was one thing he cared about that he did leave in the flat: the photo of himself and Doyle that the golly had given him for his birthday. He would have liked to keep it, but he couldn't risk carrying anything that would link him back to CI5, so he left it on the mantle in the lounge, along with a quick message to Doyle scrawled on a piece of scrap paper. Bodie was too aware that Doyle deserved more, so much more, than an abandoned picture and a nearly impersonal note, but he couldn't afford to give him even the slightest hint of what was truly going on. The very last thing he needed was a rabid Doyle trying to save Bodie's honour by putting himself between the IRA and an allegedly disgraced CI5 agent.

He stopped at the entrance to the lounge and took one last look around, an unfamiliar swell of nostalgia welling up inside of him. He'd been in this flat for a bit more than six months, but it had been a bloody important six months. He'd kissed Ray Doyle for the first time on this flat's tatty sofa, and been snogged by Doyle in return. They'd christened the bed mere days later, and put it to good use many more nights after that. And they'd had loads of morning-after breakfasts in the kitchen, with Bodie providing the fry-ups Doyle was usually too mean to offer at his flat. 

Finally, when he couldn't afford to stay in the flat any longer, he pulled on his motorcycle boots and favourite leather jacket and grabbed his suitcases. He wished he could take his bike, just roar off to the west until he hit the Irish Sea, but in the wake of the debacle with Marikka, Cowley had made sure he had a list of every vehicle owned by every operative on the A Squad, including Bodie's beloved BMW. But with his leathers, he could use Cowley's bankroll to get a bike once he made it to Ireland.

Twenty-nine minutes after he'd entered the flat, he slammed its door shut behind him, the heat of the day hitting him like an African afternoon. He made his way to the local mini-cab office, the back of his neck prickling all the way down the street. He couldn't shake the feeling that Doyle was behind him, that Doyle had found him before he could disappear, and then all Cowley's elaborate plans would have been for naught. But Doyle didn't appear on his heels and he made it into a cab without incident, though strangely disappointed at his success in avoiding his partner.

He had the cab drive around aimlessly for half an hour and then drop him off into the bustle and filth of King's Cross Station. He gave the driver a twenty quid tip to encourage his silence. The money probably wouldn't hold the man's tongue forever, but even a few hours would be enough.

He rode the tube for an hour, changing lines regularly, before finally getting off at Earl's Court, losing himself in a ratty bedsit with a dodgy clientele and a landlord who barely looked at him when he paid a week's rent for his room. He stowed his gear in his temporary refuge, hiding his guns and the file of information on his quarry and removing his too-hot leather jacket. Then he set off to find the one man he trusted to help him get out of England and into Northern Ireland.

Finding Marty took longer than packing up his life had done, but he managed it. As evening fell, he tracked the arms trader down to a tug on the Thames. The tug was far more squalid than his usual places of business, but Marty held court there as stylishly as always, seemingly untouched by the now dissipating late August heat.

"Bodie," Marty greeted him with a voice that was equal parts world-weariness and boredom. "How can I help you?"

"How do you know I need your help?"

"Why else do you come and see me these days unless it's for help? Help tracking down one of my less scrupulous competitors; help finding a top secret weapon you've lost."

"It's not quite like that this time. I need to lose myself. Get off this bloody island."

Marty's interest perked up considerably at that request. "And why would you want to do that, my dear boy?"

"Let's just say that Her Majesty's forces want to have a little word with me."

"Bodie, have you been naughty?" Bodie hadn't seen Marty grin like that since Bodie had helped him smuggle a particularly difficult shipment of guns out of the country, back before he'd joined the side of the angels.

"You might say that. And I'd appreciate it if you keep mum about having seen me if any of my old mob turn up."

"Even that partner of yours?"

"Especially Doyle." Bodie planted a finger firmly in Marty's chest. "I don't want him catching one word of what I'm up to."

"And what are you up to? Exactly."

"I don't expect you really want to know that, Marty. But I can tell you that I need to get to Ireland."

"Don't tell me you've gone all political on me. That would be such a letdown."

"Not quite. But England has given me one bollocking too many, and I'd like to get some of my own back. And I reckon the Irish lads might just be the ones to help me do it."

"You disappoint me, Bodie. I never thought I'd see you mixed up with the likes of them." His face took on a thoughtful expression. "However, I do see how this could work to our mutual advantage."

"Do tell."

"I have a certain package to be shipped to Ireland in five day's time, and I could do with having a bit of my own muscle in on the delivery. I don't entirely trust the Irish lads to follow through on their end of the bargain."

"I'm your man," Bodie said, smiling.

"Perfect. How can I get in touch with you?"

"Oh, no you don't." Bodie waggled a finger at Marty. "I don't want anyone to make an irresistible offer for my hide. I'll get in touch with you."

"Can't blame a man for trying," Marty said with a sigh. "Contact me tomorrow afternoon and I'll have the details."

"Thanks Marty. I owe you one."

"You owe me considerably more than one, Bodie."

Bodie flashed Marty a quick grin before he stepped off the boat and onto the rickety pier.

One problem solved.

Now all he had to do was avoid being picked up by a local plod, make his way to Ireland, infiltrate a highly dangerous brigade of the IRA, and stop whatever mayhem they were planning to unleash on an unsuspecting public. Not to mention avoiding the notice and wrath of one Raymond Doyle.

Easy-peasy, as his gran used to say.

Not bloody likely.

He wasn't sure if it was more probable that Doyle would put a bullet through him or that the Irish mob would chop him up into little pieces. If he was lucky, there'd be a body for burial. If he was very lucky, there might be enough of him left for an open casket funeral.

Checking carefully around him for signs of a tail, Bodie hunched his shoulders and began making his cautious way to his bedsit.

* * *

How did you find a CI5 agent who didn't want to be found? Worse still, how did you find him when George Cowley himself wanted you to leave well enough alone? Had, in fact, assigned you to permanent duty on the world's most boring obbo? The answer, Doyle discovered, was very carefully, and with a little help from your friends.

There were others besides Murphy who'd been disturbed at the charges against Bodie and disappointed that CI5 wasn't being allowed to clean its own doorstep. It was those others, men and women who'd been on the A squad as long as they had, or even longer, Susan and Jax, Lucas and McCabe, Ruth and even Anson, who took turns on the obbo with Murphy while Doyle tried to run Bodie to ground.

He'd tried the grasses first, Bodie's and the ones they shared, thinking one of them might have heard something, but Scotland Yard had got to them first and shut them up tight. Then he went after Bodie's shadier contacts, the ones who might have been able to get him out of England, the ones who might have been involved if Bodie wasn't innocent. Those worthies had disappeared completely, not that Doyle had ever known how to contact most of them. With Bodie's trail getting staler by the minute, Doyle tried one last desperate scheme.

Since he hadn't taken either his car or his bike, Doyle reckoned that Bodie must have taken a cab, and with two suitcases in his hands, he figured that he wouldn't have wanted to go far. So, Doyle took a chance and staked out the mini-cab office closest to Bodie's flat.

Twenty-four hours he spent at the stand. Twenty-four hours of striking up a friendship with the dispatcher based on their mutual loathing of Manchester United. Twenty-four hours of showing Bodie's picture to every driver who passed through, however tired or bored or hostile they were.

For a change, the failure of Cowley to get a D notice worked in his favour. Bodie's picture was splashed all over the evening papers and news broadcasts, and it made most of the drivers almost eager to talk to him, no doubt driven by morbid curiosity. When he finally found the driver he was looking for, the bloke denied having seen Bodie. But Doyle knew he was the right one by the way he sparked up at Bodie's picture. Half an hour, two cups of tea, countless questions, and forty quid later, Doyle learned that the driver had picked up Bodie and his two suitcases, driven him around for half an hour, and deposited him at King's Cross. Bodie had tipped the driver twenty pounds, made him promise not to talk to any coppers—Doyle had assured the man that he wasn't a copper, which was, stretching the point a bit, true—and disappeared into the station. Whether he'd taken the train or the tube, the man couldn't say.

Not much to go on. Nothing at all, really.

So Doyle fell back on instinct. And instinct told him that Bodie was still in London, gone to ground somewhere that a transient traveller wouldn't be noted at all. Blind luck made him choose Earl's Court as his starting place. He spent four days splitting his time between the obbo, in case Cowley called in, and making inquiries at every dodgy bedsit and B&B in Earl's Court before he found the place where Bodie had stayed. Stayed and left, Doyle having missed him by less than a day.

Bodie had arrived at the place with his two suitcases the same day that he'd been suspended. He'd paid cash and given his name as Dave Bentley. He'd caused no trouble and had left three days later with only an army bergen slung over his shoulder, the suitcases having disappeared. Doyle wondered if those suitcases had been collected by the dustman or were currently sharing space with the flounder on the bottom of the Thames. He was betting on the dustman.

The landlord, a weaselly little man who never quite met your eye, didn't know where Bodie had gone and hadn't seen anyone he'd talked to. Bodie, not surprisingly, had left no forwarding address.

With no Bodie, no leads, and thankful only that the heat of summer seemed finally to have broken, Doyle made his way back to the obbo to find Murphy and Ruth packing up the equipment.

"Did Cowley finally call off this farce?" Doyle asked.

"That he did," Ruth said, carefully putting the camera back in its case.

"Fantastic," Doyle said without enthusiasm. "What's he got Murph and me doing next? Babysitting Her Majesty's corgis?"

"No idea, but he wants us both in first thing tomorrow."

"Fuck," Doyle said, lacking the energy to launch a more eloquent tirade about George Cowley and what he could do with his next assignment. He felt more tired than he'd done after more gruelling assignments. Tired and brittle, as if his bones would shatter from the slightest contact.

"You've got the evening off, at least. That's more than he's given you since..." Ruth bit her lip and looked away from Doyle.

"Since what, Ruth?" Doyle said, his fatigue turning quickly to bitterness. "You can say it. Since Bodie fucking disappeared."

"Don't take it out on Ruth, Doyle." Murphy stepped between them. "She's been a big help."

With difficulty, Doyle unclenched his fists and took a large lungful of air. He knew he shouldn't turn on his friends, but he wanted nothing more than to lash out. At Cowley, at Murphy, at Ruth, at whoever happened to be near. At Bodie more than anyone, but he was nowhere to be found. "Sorry, Ruth." He hoped he sounded contrite enough. "Been a long day."

"Any results at the end of it?" Doyle was thankful that Ruth didn't seem upset by his outburst. Seemed almost to have expected it. 

"I found the bedsit where Bodie was staying. In Earl's Court."

"That's good news, then," Ruth said.

"Not really. He left yesterday and the trail just stops. No sign of where he might have gone." Doyle knew he'd clenched his fists again but he found he couldn't relax this time.

"We'll find him, Doyle. Someone's bound to hear something." He knew Murphy meant well, really he did. And yet something in Doyle seemed to splinter and crack at Murphy's good-natured optimism. The dark swells of emotion that had been threatening to swamp him for every second since Cowley had called him into his office nearly a week ago suddenly capsized him entirely.

"Don't give me your fucking platitudes, Murph. Bodie's disappeared, good and proper. We're not going to find him unless he wants to be found."

"I was only trying to be helpful, Doyle." Murphy put a hand on his shoulder. Doyle reacted to the touch without thought, using skills taught by Brian Macklin and tricks learned on the streets of Derby and London. For the second time in less than a week, he had Alec Murphy on his back, looking less hurt than knocked for six.

Conflicting impulses warred within Doyle. Rage, that it was Murphy he was working with, not Bodie. Regret, that he'd turned on a man who'd only offered him friendship. And above all, a desire to escape, as Bodie had done, a need to be absolutely alone.

Without a word of apology or explanation to either Murphy or Ruth, he fled the flat, his feet carrying him automatically to his car. He drove off without the slightest thought of where he was going, only knowing that he needed to be gone, and at as great a speed as possible.

* * *

Murphy lay on the floor, waiting for the stars to clear his head and for things to start making some sense again.

"Are you all right?" Ruth's face swam into his field of vision, concern and the merest trace of amusement visible in her expression.

"Yeah," he said. He blinked once and then tried to sit up, ignoring the lurch the world gave as he did so. "Give us a hand up, Ruth." Her warm hand closed on his and he was pulled to a standing position, still reeling from the fury Doyle had directed at him.

Ruth gave a whistle and gingerly touched the skin on his cheekbone. "You're going to have a lovely bruise tomorrow."

"Wonderful," Murphy said, and winced as Ruth hit a particularly tender spot. "I hope Cowley doesn't ask where I got it."

"He'll be able to guess." Ruth laid off her not-so-tender ministrations and looked speculatively at the door that had seen Ray Doyle's stormy exit. "I've always wondered about that temper of his. I've only heard rumours, never seen it in action."

"I've seen it in action far too often this last week."

"I don't doubt it."

"The thing is..." Murphy began, then stopped, his loyalty to Doyle overwhelming the thought that had just occurred to him.

"What?" Ruth urged.

"Nothing."

"Now I know it's something, and now you definitely have to tell me." She grabbed him by the sleeve. "If you don't, I'll poke every bruise you've got and a few you don't."

"All right, all right." Murphy recovered his sleeve from Ruth's grasp. "The thing is, I thought he'd ease up, after a bit."

"What?" Ruth sounded truly shocked.

"I mean, I know he and Bodie were best mates, but it's been nearly a week. He can't pine away forever, can he?"

"Are you utterly thick, Murph?" Ruth looked at him as if she thought that Murphy was indeed thick.

"What?"

"They were better than best mates."

"I don't..." Murph trailed off as he struggled to understand what Ruth was getting at, but the only viable answer was also completely impossible.

"Listen, why do you think that those two are the only unmarried male agents that Susan, Sally and I have steered clear of? In a romantic, lustful way, if you know what I mean."

"Because you don't fancy them?" Murphy was fighting manfully to keep the order of the universe exactly as he knew and liked it.

"Oh, come on, Murph. I'd have to be dead not to fancy Doyle. And Bodie's not so bad either."

"Because dating fellow agents is against the rules?" Murphy tried again.

"Didn't stop Susan from dating you for a fortnight. Nor me from sleeping with Anson last month, God help me."

"Because..." He struggled to continue, and stopped, having run out of plausible reasons the female contingent might have avoided bedding Cowley's Bisto Kids. 

"Because they were together, you stupid boy."

"Together," he repeated, determined to avoid the point.

"Sleeping together. Having it off. Fucking each other. Any of this sound familiar, Murph?"

"That's not..." Murphy stopped, able to do no more than stand in the middle of the room with his mouth agape.

"Oh, Christ." Ruth rolled her eyes. "I know the other lads don't have a clue, but you're friends with them both. I thought you'd have cottoned on to all this ages ago."

"Apparently not." Murphy was amazed that he'd managed to find his voice again and that it wasn't the shocked squeak he'd expected to emerge from his throat. Suddenly, Bodie and Doyle's usual behaviour—Bodie's unswerving protectiveness of Doyle; Doyle's vicious defence of Bodie's honour against all comers; their constant camping, which Ruth's revelation made seem less like pratting about and more like hiding in plain sight—made so much more sense. "Bodie sleeping with Doyle." He shook his head.

"Listen," Ruth said, grabbing his arm with a suddenness that startled even his Macklin-trained reflexes. "You're not going to make trouble about this, are you? Not going to run to Cowley? Or share the news with the rest of the yobs on the squad? Doyle doesn't deserve that kind of grief on top of what he's already got, and I only said anything because I thought you were a bit sharper than the rest of our lot."

"No, Ruth," Murphy said, gently extracting his arm from her grasp. "I won't make trouble. You just surprised me. Besides, it makes a lot of sense when you think about it." 

"It does at that," Ruth said. "A mobile ghetto, they call themselves. With a population of two and no visitors allowed."

"Christ, he's going to be a bastard for a long time, isn't he?" Murphy looked towards the door that Doyle had stormed out of.

"Yeah," Ruth said, turning her head to follow Murphy's gaze. "But you can handle him." Ruth put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. "Now I think you'd better be off after him. You know Doyle. As soon as he calms down he's going to feel guilty as hell. Be better if you're there to tell him you don't mind being his punch bag."

"And if I do mind?" Murphy felt his cheek where Doyle had hit him, and flexed the shoulder he'd landed on. Badly.

"You don't. We all know you're incapable of holding a grudge, Murph." 

"If I didn't know better, I'd think I was being taken advantage of."

"Good thing you know better, then, isn't it?" Ruth said with a wink. "Now scarper. I'll clean up the rest of this lot."

Without another word, Murphy headed for the street and his car, considering Ruth's epiphany. Bodie and Doyle a couple. He shook his head, recognizing the obviousness of it, even as the knowledge still had the power to stagger him. Still, it didn't change who they were. Didn't make them, _both_ of them, any less his friends.

He couldn't do anything for Bodie, not until they found him, but he could help Doyle. He pulled away from the kerb and consulted his mental map of London. If he wasn't mistaken, there was an Off Licence a few streets over on the way to Doyle's flat. A few tins of lager, takeaway tandoori chicken, and just possibly he could jolly Doyle around to be a halfway decent human being again.

He did not, however, intend to indulge in any discussion of Doyle's love life, especially as it concerned Bodie. That was their own business, and besides, blokes didn't have that kind of talk with other blokes.

He also didn't delude himself that Doyle would be entirely human until Bodie was back and whole and cleared of the ridiculous charges that had been levelled against him. And he knew as much as anyone that it was possible that day would never come.


	2. Autumn

Bodie stood on the deck of the small ship, smelling the familiar salt of the sea mixed with the diesel fumes from the ship's engine. After the past five days, even this adulterated fresh air was a welcome change.

Three days he'd spent in London, mostly staying in that wretched bedsit, a place made more wretched by the August heat that insisted on clinging to the city. When he'd had to go out—for food, to meet Marty—he'd made sure to avoid members of the Met and anyone else who seemed to be taking too much of an interest in him. Then he'd spent the better part of a day mashed into the back of a lorry that was even hotter than the bedsit, and twice as uncomfortable. The lorry had taken the long way round into Wales, with him just a part of Marty's shipment. He'd spent another day in another ratty bedsit in Swansea, waiting for the word from Marty's captain that they were ready to leave. The only good thing about that place was that the heat had finally gone, though he wasn't sure he liked the hint of autumn's chill it had left behind.

Now here he was, crossing the Irish Sea, the green shores of Ireland looming out of the fog in front of him and stirring up memories he'd rather forget.

He'd always fucking hated Ireland, ever since he could remember. For his first six years it had only been an idea, a name spoken by his father when the old bastard had been drunk. He'd blather on about how grand Ireland was, even though he hadn't been back since he was a boy. The Irish talk was usually the sign that he was about to lay into Bodie and his mum with his fists.

When he turned six, his gran had started sending Bodie over to Northern Ireland in the summers to stay with various members of the Bodie clan and given him more reasons to hate the country. She'd been well intentioned, had no doubt wanted to get her grandson away from both the grim streets that surrounded their Liverpool council flat and the temper of her son, but his memories of those summers were mixed at best. He'd torn around the countryside with a mob of cousins who were even wilder than he'd been and had only barely tolerated their English relative with his Scouse accent. These days, the lot of them were either on the dole, in jail for smuggling, or dead.

All except for Noel and Liam.

Even in the summers of his youth, the two brothers had been the ringleaders and the most vicious members of the Bodie clan. They had led the battles with other groups of kids and had organized shoplifting expeditions into Crossmaglen. They had been his chief tormenters, calling him a British traitor even when he was too young to understand the conflict that was still tearing Ireland apart. Bodie had taken a grim satisfaction when he'd joined the Army and become a traitor in fact to the Irish side of the family. They'd all disowned him then. Said he was betraying his own people, working for the enemy. As far as he was concerned, his family were the enemy.

Things had got worse when he'd made it through SAS selection. He'd received death threats from his family when he joined the Regiment, the birthday card he'd shared with Cowley being the least of it. As always, Noel and Liam had led the charge, sending him almost weekly descriptions of the kind of death he'd face if he ever ventured back on Irish soil. None of which had stopped Bodie from being seconded back to the Paras to serve two tours of duty in Belfast. He'd laughed and crumpled up the scribbled, misspelled missives and sworn to gun down any of his cousins stupid enough to step into his crosshairs in the ‘six occupied counties'.

His two tours of duty in the country hadn't improved his opinion of Ireland any. It was a miserable fucking place to be if you were a British soldier. Always looking over your shoulder, never knowing if that girl in the estate agent's window or that kid on the corner was going to shop your location to the IRA or blow a bomb in the culvert under your feet. And the things he'd been ordered to do by his commander didn't bear thinking about. He'd never been so glad as when he'd been recruited from the Regiment by CI5. The Cow had done some dodgy things in the past, but nothing like he'd seen in Ireland.

And what was he doing for the Cow now? Going back to the same fucking country to infiltrate an IRA brigade that included the cousins who wanted him dead, a brigade that had already killed other operatives.

Brilliant.

He hoped there was a special circle of hell reserved for Cowley and whatever genius in MI5 had dreamed up this nightmare.

Though, that wasn't entirely fair. He knew none of this was Cowley's fault. Knew that the Cow had been roped into the mess by the Home Office and MI5. Knew that it had to be done.

Didn't make any of it any easier, though.

He pulled himself from his black thoughts as the ship's engines cut out. They were maybe fifty yards from shore, a pebble beach stretching before them in the gathering twilight.

"Are we on the Republic side?" Bodie asked, trying to remember where Marty's contact said they were to land.

"Yeah," the captain said with a sniff, a thick Welsh accent colouring his speech. They'd neither of them given their real names and Bodie had taken to calling the tough Welshman Davy. Got up his nose no end. "Easier to land here. No British patrols." Davy dropped anchor and then lowered a small outboard into the sea. "And here's where you earn your keep."

"Thought I'd already done that," Bodie replied, letting a certain belligerence colour his voice.

"You loaded the cargo right enough. But now I need it unloaded. Into that boat." He gestured with his head.

"Christ, you don't want much, do you?" The small boat would fit their deadly cargo and the two of them, but it would be tight.

"Marty told me you were a miracle worker. So, work a miracle."

Bodie grumbled for a few more minutes, more for form's sake than out of any real desire to avoid the job. He had grown used to hauling baggage like a navvy after nearly eight years as Doyle's partner.

The thought of Doyle stabbed at his innards like a finely honed knife, and he clamped down on it mercilessly. He couldn't allow himself to reflect on Doyle or their partnership. He extinguished all memory of flashing green eyes and a chipped-tooth smile, of bare flesh gone pink with desire. He eradicated thoughts of nights spent together, of what more had sparked between them, latent and unacknowledged but glittering with promise. He would do this job like the automaton that so many had thought him, and at the end he would either be dead or back with Doyle. He didn't allow himself to consider the possibility that Doyle wouldn't want him back if he survived.

His face grimly set, he began to load cases of guns and ammunition into the boat, careful to distribute the weight evenly, leaving enough room for himself and his surly, anonymous captain. 

When the job was done, he returned to the small cabin to grab his gear, hefting the bergen that contained all his worldly possessions. In the two days he'd spent holed up in his Earl's Court bedsit, he'd pared down his belongings even further. He'd memorized and burned Cowley's file, just as the Old Man had ordered. He'd kept his guns—the Sig was in his shoulder holster and the Browning lay at the bottom of the bergen along with a box of spare 9 mm shells—and the bare minimum of clothes. He'd also kept the two small volumes of poetry that he'd had since he'd run away to sea, a scrawny kid trying his best to find some beauty in the world, even if it was only in the words of some long-dead poet. Everything else had gone back in the suitcases and been dumped into a rubbish bin a few streets over from his bedsit.

The boat loaded, they settled on deck to await the signal from the shore. It wasn't long coming, a series of flashes from the beach. Davy sent back the confirming signal and then they were in the boat heading towards their rendezvous.

They were met on the shore by three men. All wore the slightly shabby tweed that marked them as farmers. All of them looked at Bodie with suspicion. He returned their interest with a bland look, zipping up his leather jacket against the morning chill even as he judged who was armed, who was most dangerous.

"Who's he, then?" one of the men asked Davy, ignoring Bodie completely.

"Martell's man."

"And what's Martell's man want with us?" 

"A lift," Bodie said, stepping past Davy to confront the Irishmen directly. He let his accent drift north to Liverpool, to the tones he'd not used since he was a teenager, running away from home and school and all. "I'm looking for Noel Bodie." The first man's eyes widened in shock. "He's my cousin and I'm hoping he can get me out of a spot of trouble."

"First time I ever heard of someone looking for Noel to get them _out_ of trouble. That lad's better at getting people into trouble than anyone I know." This man was older than the other two and clearly the leader. He also very obviously had a pistol in his jacket pocket. He looked at Bodie with a penetrating gaze that reminded Bodie of no one so much as Cowley.

"That he is. But I don't have much choice at the moment."

The man's eyes narrowed. "I've seen you."

"So have I." The youngest man, a spotty-faced bloke who looked barely in his twenties, moved towards Bodie and drew his own gun. "They've been showing him on the telly all week. He's CI5."

"Ex-CI5," Bodie said quickly and doing his best not to react to the weapon pointed in his face. "The reason they've been showing me charming face on the telly is that I'm wanted by Her Majesty for crimes against the state. And I'm not keen on going to prison."

"And I suppose the charges are all a horrible mistake," the oldest man said.

"Nah." Bodie crossed his arms and gave his best smirk. "All true. That's why I'm hoping Noel can help me out. And make use of me."

The man gave Bodie an appraising look, deciding what to do with him.

"What are we waiting for?" The snotty little sod with the gun moved forward and pressed the end of the barrel against Bodie's cheek, grinding it into his flesh. "Let's kill him and be done with it."

"And if he really is Noel's cousin? Are you going to tell Noel Bodie why you killed one of his kin?"

Bodie had to hand it to spotty face: he kept his hand steady on the gun, even if he did blanch at the thought of angering Noel.

"I didn't think so." The leader reached out and took the gun out of spotty face's hand before looking at Bodie. "We don't generally cross into Armagh, but we can take you to Dundalk. The Bodies are there more often than not. There's a pub you can wait in. If the lads'll let you."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. If you're lying, about anything, by the time Noel gets through with you, you'll wish I'd let the lad here shoot you."

"I see you know my cousin well."

"And what about the shipment?" Davy said. He'd been hanging back while everything played out, but now he was looking nervous and eager to complete his business.

"We have your money, don't worry. You can load it onto our lorry," he said, pointing at Bodie. "When the lorry's loaded, you'll be riding in the back. It's bad enough I'll be transporting a fugitive; I don't want to make it to easy for them to find you if we're stopped by the Garda."

"All I want is the lift. I don't mind how I get it."

So it was that Bodie found himself in the back of another lorry, wedged in between crates and boxes, covered by a musty-smelling tarp and heading towards Christ only knew what fate.

* * *

The pub in Dundalk was a grotty little place, its only virtue the dim lighting that hid the slop on the tables and the dirt on the floor. But the dimness and the dirt suited the men who frequented the place: hardcore Republicans and full IRA members, men who gathered here to plan robberies and ambushes and bombings.

Bodie eyed the regulars warily, on the lookout for anyone who might recognize him, who knew him from his tours here with the SAS and Paras, or knew his family.

The room had grown silent as soon as he'd set foot inside, the low murmurs of men used to maintaining secrecy fading to a complete silence disturbed only by the sound of a pint glass hitting a wooden table.

And then one voice rose into the silence, the one voice he'd been hoping not to hear. The one voice he needed to hear if he hoped to carry off this mad charade.

"Well, if it isn't the Dead Man. Look, Liam, it's the Dead Man."

"So it is, Noel. How are you, Dead Man? Tired of living?"

"Not so much," Bodie said, keeping his voice as calm as was possible with his heart hammering in his throat. "Tired of working for the English, though."

Though it had been over twenty years since he'd seen the brothers, Bodie would have known them anywhere. Noel had the same expression of sneering arrogance he'd worn when tormenting his younger English cousin. And Liam, now taller and lankier than his older brother, still bore a look of vicious cunning.

Noel and Liam Bodie grinned at each other with an expression that was not at all comforting. Bodie recognized the look from his days in the African bush; jackals wore it before a pack of them tore into a fresh carcass. Bodie puffed out his chest and tried his best not to look like a plump gazelle.

"Is that so?" Noel said, his eyes narrowing to slits. "And why would that be?"

"I'm a fugitive from the law. You might have seen the headlines. CI5 agent charged with treason and assorted other crimes."

"You've been falsely accused, of course," said Liam, looking as sceptical as his brother.

"No." Bodie did his best to appear nonchalant. "I did exactly what I'm accused of."

"Our dear, law-abiding, English cousin guilty of treason. Say it isn't so." Noel reached into his jacket and pulled out a handgun. He aimed it straight at Bodie's head with a hand as steady as a rock.

"What is the world coming to," said Liam, pulling out his own gun. Around them, the pub's other patrons determinedly ignored the drama taking place in their midst. Bodie knew that if he was shot here and now, no witnesses to his death would ever come forward.

Bodie forced himself to remain calm, knowing his chances of surviving the next minute depended on convincing cousins he'd never liked, and who'd always hated him, that he could be useful to them. 

Bloody hell.

Noel moved forward until the barrel of his gun was touching Bodie's forehead.

"What brought the Dead Man to Ireland, then?"

"Only place I had left to go, wasn't it? Couldn't stay in England. And I'm wanted in too many places in Africa. So I thought I'd come here and see if you lads could find a use for me."

"Oh, we can find a use for you," Liam said, a murderous light gleaming in his eyes. "My pigs haven't had such a good meal in weeks." Liam always had been more sadistic than his brother, eager to act first and think about it much later, if at all. He pulled back the slide on his gun and aimed it at Bodie's gut. Bodie had no doubt that if Liam killed him, he'd make sure Bodie suffered first.

No, if he was going to survive, he had to appeal to Noel. Noel was the smarter of the two of them. Noel had, on occasion, acted almost human. Noel could be persuaded.

"What about you, Noel? Do you want to throw away an asset trained by your enemy and willing to share his knowledge? I could be very valuable for the intelligence alone. I thought you Armagh boys survived on intelligence."

"Don't listen to him, Noel. He always was a lying bastard, even as a kid." Bodie saw Liam's finger moving to the trigger of his gun. He forced himself to keep breathing and thought of Doyle, staring at him with fire and passion. If this was to be his last moment on earth, he wanted his thoughts to be of the green-eyed, sarky bastard who was the best man he'd ever known. 

"No," Noel said, taking the gun from Liam's hand. "Don't shoot him. Not yet. We'll let the commander decide. Do some research of our own. If he's telling the truth, we'll have a trained recruit. And if he's not..." Noel flashed a smile that had absolutely no amusement in it. "If he's not, your pigs will be as hungry next week as they are now."

Noel holstered his own gun, and then stabbed Bodie's chest with the butt of Liam's gun. "We'll be back in a few days, Dead Man. You'll wait here, for as long as it takes. Claire'll give you a room." He nodded at the bluff, middle-aged woman behind the bar. Then he turned and directly addressed the pub's other denizens. "If any of you see this English bastard trying to leave town, put a bullet in the back of his head." He turned back to Bodie. "Just so you know where you stand."

"Oh, I never had any doubt about that, Noel."

"Good." He turned to Claire. "You find my cousin a room. But mind you don't trust him. Come on, Liam. We'd best be on the road."

And then they were gone, and Bodie was left in a room full of Republicans who didn't trust him, but weren't going to kill him. Yet.

He walked towards the bar. "Claire."

"That's Mrs. Bannon to you, Englishman." She gave him a sour look that left no doubt of her feelings about being landed with a stray English turncoat.

"Sorry, Mrs. Bannon." Bodie decided to remain polite and unflappable. Any extra charm would be wasted here. "So, what about this room, then?"

The woman reached under the bar and threw a key at him. He caught it easily. 

"Room six, top of the stairs over there." She pointed to the back of the pub. "I don't do breakfast, and I'd appreciate you keeping to yourself." With that, she turned her back on him.

"Thank you," Bodie said, resisting the urge to put on his poshest accent. That might get a laugh out of Doyle, but it was liable to get him killed here.

He hefted his bergen onto one shoulder and walked to the back of the pub and up the stairs, feeling the entire time as if he were running a gauntlet. The pub was quiet as a pin until he was upstairs with the door closed behind him, then he could hear it erupt into excited chatter.

Bodie locked the door and turned to look at the room that would be his home for the next few days. It was quite as bad as he'd expected, a tiny hole with a sagging bed and a rickety, ladder-back chair. One corner held a stained sink with a dripping tap. 

He threw his bergen on the floor and sat on the bed. The ancient mattress gave beneath him with a groan.

It would be so very easy to go spare in a place like this, holed up like an animal in a town where everyone would as soon see him dead. Bodie put those thoughts from his head and remembered the times he'd been so much worse off. Stuck in a Borneo jungle with the Regiment, insects crawling on every inch of skin and the sky chucking rain down by the bucket. Or that prison in the Congo, the one he'd never told anyone about, not Cowley, not even Doyle. At least here he had a roof over his head, a real bed to sleep in. And no one was actively trying to kill him.

He reached into the bergen and took out his volume of Yeats, then lay back on the bed. He could survive a crap room in an Irish pub, could survive being surrounded by locals who were no doubt deciding if they could get away with killing him and tossing his body into the nearby bog. 

This part would be a doddle.

No, he wouldn't worry until he crossed the border into Northern Ireland, where a bullet to the back of his head would be the most merciful death he could expect. For now, he'd do what soldiers since time immemorial had been trained to do: he'd wait.

* * *

When Doyle finally caught word of Bodie it wasn't because of hard work or brilliant investigative skills. It was blind luck.

He and Murphy had gone round to meet one of Doyle's old sources from his days in the Met. Kevin Ranson was a third-rate villain and an all-round bastard, as likely to steer them wrong for his own amusement as he was to give them useful information. But Doyle hadn't given up on him, because every once in a while, he'd come up trumps. Tell them about a big drug buy or let them know where they might find a weapons stash.

When Kev had left details for a meeting, Doyle hoped that this was going to be one of those days that Kev gave them the goods. If he just pratted about, Doyle was going to wring his bloody neck.

He was losing his temper all too often of late; decking Murphy a week ago had been only the start of it. He'd lost his rag with a few suspects, bitten the head off a colleague or two. He'd even snapped at Cowley when the Old Man had given them yet another in a string of useless, time-consuming assignments. Doyle knew he wasn't working up to snuff, but he was fucked if he wanted Cowley rubbing his nose in the fact.

He hoped that Kev would give them something useful, something that would get him off tedious obbos and onto a real case. ‘Cause the way he reckoned it, that was the only way he was going to stay sane. The only way he wouldn't spend his days obsessing about Bodie and where the stupid fucker was.

Days and nights, truth be told. He'd not been sleeping well, his mind racing with trying to think of a new way to find information about Bodie. Doyle knew how rough he must look standing in this East End alley, dark circles under his eyes, two days' worth of stubble on his face, and clothes that looked as if he'd dragged them off the floor three days running because he had. If he were a regular punter, he'd call the Old Bill on himself. He pursed his lips at the thought, and cast his eyes back to the opening of the alley, where Murphy waited to back him up.

Ten minutes after the meeting time, Kev finally sauntered down the alley, an ill-fitting suit hanging on his drug-skinny frame, his permanent sneer well in place. 

"Well, if it isn't Master Doyle. Where's your bully boy partner?" Kev looked around theatrically. "Oh, yeah, that's right. He's a wanted man, isn't he? He's as bad as I am. Worse, even."

Doyle had slammed the stupid bastard into a wall before he quite knew he was going to. "Keep your mouth shut, Kev."

"Watch it, Doyle. You'll wrinkle the suit." The wanker didn't even have the sense to be scared. Doyle let him go in disgust and Kev straightened his lapels. "You here on your own?" Kev asked, looking around the alley.

"Not bloody likely," Doyle said.

"Meet his new bully boy," Murphy said, emerging from the shadows where he'd been waiting, and looming over Kev with an easy menace.

"He's Murphy," Doyle said, pointing at Murphy. "And he's just as bad as Bodie, in case you were wondering. Aren't you, Murph?"

"Absolutely," Murphy said, doing his best threatening glower which, Doyle thought with a pang, wasn't nearly as good as Bodie's.

"Nothing to choose between any of you lot, is there?" Kev said, looking unimpressed with both of them. "Are you interested in what I've got to say, or what?"

"Let's have it, Kev."

"What, not going to wine and dine me? No flowers, no chocolates? You must go down a treat with the ladies."

"Do you want me to do you over, Kev? ‘Cause I will if you don't get to the fuckin' point."

"No sense of humour, that's your problem, Doyle." He looked over at Murphy. "Must be a barrel of laughs to work with."

"I'll put you over a barrel if you don't tell us what you've got."

"Yeah, all right." Kev raised his hands in surrender. "Drugs."

"Lot of them about. What's it to us?"

"Big shipment coming to our shores. Big men involved. Lots of money."

"Sounds like a fairy story to me."

"'S the God's honest truth." Kev crossed his heart with a smile.

"Bloody well better be. You got any details?" Doyle wasn't entirely sure that this wasn't one of Kev's windups.

"The shipment is coming in by boat, early next week. That's all I've got now, but I should be able to get you a location and exact time in a few days."

"I should bloody hope so, Kev. Or there'll be no money in it for you."

"That's what I always liked about you, Doyle. Full of the milk of human kindness you are."

"Prat us about and I'll drown you in the milk of human kindness."

"Yeah, yeah." Kev, as always, looked unconcerned about the threats. "I'll call when I've got more. As long as you have the dosh."

"We'll have it. If you have the information."

"I'll be in touch," Kev said, and then began slinking away. Once he reached the mouth of the alley, though, he stopped and turned around. "I've got one more bit of news you might be interested in," he called back.

"Oh, yeah?" Doyle said, not paying nearly enough attention. Kev never came to them with two tips at a time. Not unless one was absolute bollocks and he had no expectation of being paid for it.

"Yeah. Free to you, Doyle, on account of you being such a good friend."

"Well, what is it?"

"'S about your partner."

"My partner?" Suddenly Doyle was paying exquisite attention.

"Yeah. Your proper partner. Bodie. Not this shop's mannequin ‘ere." He nodded in Murphy's direction.

"What about Bodie?" Doyle stamped down hard on the impulse to go over and shake Kevin Ranson until the words he was hoarding spilled out of him.

"Mate of mine saw him a while back. Just before the newspapers had his picture all over ‘em."

"Where'd he see him, Kev?"

"Down at the river. He was getting off some grotty little tugboat. My mate didn't think much about it at the time—he's not one to seek out the attention of CI5, if you know what I mean—but then he heard about the trouble Bodie was in."

"Did your mate notice where Bodie went?"

"Nah. And that's not the important bit." Kev gave Doyle an infuriatingly smug grin.

"What _is_ the important bit?" Doyle ground his teeth trying to rein in his temper.

"The tugboat. Or more importantly, who else was on the tugboat."

"And who was that?" The way Kev was dragging this out, Doyle didn't reckon there was a jury in the land that would convict him for committing GBH on the prat.

"Marty."

"Marty who?"

"Marty Martell, is who."

"Martell?" Doyle's fury evaporated in the face of the first real lead they'd got. Doyle could see Bodie going to Martell for help getting out of the city, if not the country. That meant Marty should know where Bodie was. "What was the tugboat's name?"

"Won't do you any good, will it?"

"The name, Kev."

"The Arthur Wellesley. But it really won't do you any good."

"Why not?" Murphy asked, looming in closer to Kev.

"'Cause Marty doesn't use any place for more than a few days. He'll be long gone, and he never leaves a forwarding address."

"Do you know where Martell is?"

"You must be joking. The likes of him don't associate with the likes of me."

Doyle looked at Murphy and found the same frown on his face that Doyle knew must be on his own. Then he looked back at Kev, and the smug grin on the bastard's face. "Tell you what, Kev," he said, the words coming to him without any contemplation. "You get me a current address for Martell and I'll pay you fifty quid. That's more than double your usual fee. You get me information on Bodie—where he's got to, what he's doing, anything—and I'll give you a hundred."

"A hundred?" Kev looked at him with an excess of scepticism and a complete lack of trust.

"A hundred. As long as you don't tell anyone else. Information for me only. Or Murph here. But that's it. Take it to anyone else and you won't get tuppence from me. Not ever again."

"Pay me that much and I'll do anything you like with the information." Kev turned away with a wave. "I'll be in touch." He was gone in an instant, leaving Doyle standing frozen in one spot, and Murphy looking at him rather too closely for Doyle's comfort. 

"Was that wise, Doyle?"

"Best way to get information out of Kev, giving him a lot of cash."

"Best way to let him know he could probably shop the information around somewhere else for more."

"Yeah, but if he does, I'll never do business with him again. Not to mention the fact that he knows I'll duff him up."

"That's what I like about you, Doyle: ever the gentleman." Murphy's tone was joking, but Doyle could see concern lurking behind his eyes, in the corners of his mouth. And concern was the one thing he couldn't bear. Not and keep up the front he needed, not and do his job. Bad enough that Murph had already seen him lose his temper once too often, had seen the smallest fraction of what Bodie's disappearance had done to him. Was continuing to do to him. He didn't want his pity as well. So he took a breath and straightened his shoulders and made certain the façade he had built for the world, his new partner included, was firmly in place.

"Well, you know, one does one's best." Doyle did his best toff accent, which was crap at the best of times and worse right now. But it had the desired effect of putting a slight smile of Murph's face. 

"Which isn't very much, in your case."

"Funny, Murph. Very funny." 

"So who's this Martell bloke when he's at home?"

"An old colleague of Bodie's. A gun runner. A bit posh, and doesn't like getting his hands dirty, but good at moving things around."

"Things and people?"

"Stands to reason, doesn't it?" Doyle ran his hands through his hair. "Doesn't help us much, though."

"Why not?"

"I tried to track him down when Bodie first disappeared, him and a lot of Bodie's dodgier friends. I couldn't find hide nor hair of any of them. ‘Course, at the best of times I'd be hard pressed to track down Martell. Like Kev said, he moves around a lot. Likes to be on the water. The last time Bodie and I saw him, he was on a canal boat. And Christ knows where he lives. Bodie never did tell me how he got in contact with the bastard."

"So we wait for Kev to find him for us."

"I don't know that Kev will manage it. Martell is a professional. A real professional. He's not just some punter who took up gun running for a lark." 

"We're professionals too, Doyle. We can find anyone."

"You're beginning to sound like Cowley, you know. All you need is the accent."

"I'm working on it," Murphy said with a smile. "Now come on. We should try and get to headquarters before Cowley's got nothing but the grimmest assignments to hand out. And on the way we can think of who might be able to help us find this mysterious gun runner friend of Bodie's."

Doyle followed Murphy out of the alley, and for the first time in weeks he thought he might be beginning to hope again.

* * *

It was a good thing that Bodie was a patient man. Days became a week; one week became two, and still Bodie waited.

He settled into a routine of sorts in Dundalk. After spending the first few days in his room, he was beginning to climb the walls. So he began to venture out, testing how far his limited freedom extended.

He'd have breakfast in the local transport caff, an artery-clogging fry-up that would have irked Doyle no end. Sausage rolls from the bakery made up lunch, and the passable stew that the pub served in the evening was his dinner. Rain or shine, he'd spend his days walking around the town. There was rain more often than not, the last of summer having packed up and legged it, leaving grey days in its wake. He was careful never to cross into the fields, never to give any of his many watchers reason to think he was running.

And many were the watchers he had. Everyone from Mrs. Bannon to the fresh-faced young thing who served him his morning tea kept a wary eye on him. Bodie had no doubt that the local IRA brigade received daily reports on his activities. Which was fine with him. He was keeping his own ears open, though he was careful not to be obvious about it.

Ten days on, the locals had begun to accept him, after a fashion. They still kept watch over him, and he had no illusions that they wouldn't kill him in an instant if it suited them, but they began to reveal things about themselves. At least they did to someone who knew what to look for.

Walking through town, or sitting alone in the pub at night, nursing the one pint an evening he allowed himself, he began to hear things: scraps of conversations, names. Nothing concrete, nothing incriminating, but he squirreled away the information, certain that Cowley would know what to do with it.

Not that getting in touch with Cowley was going to be easy. He learned quickly that most phones in the town were bugged, and not by government forces. The IRA ran their own intelligence network, and they could have taught the Cow a few things about thoroughness. Still, Bodie found cracks in their surveillance. By keeping an ear out, an eye open, he discovered the few houses whose phones weren't bugged, either because their inhabitants were senior Republicans, or because they kept right out of the fight. He memorized the routines of the people in those houses, when they went out to do their weekly shopping, when they went visiting. He knew he could only risk using a phone once, but if the time was right, he was prepared to get what he knew back to Cowley.

Eighteen days after he'd arrived, he was sitting in his usual corner of the pub, enduring the glare of Mrs. Bannon and the quiet contempt of the punters, when someone laid a hand on his shoulder. Only through force of will did he keep from visibly flinching, though he had no doubt that the hand's owner felt the twitch of his muscles.

"How are you, Dead Man?"

"Fine, Noel, and you?" Bodie said blandly, looking up into his cousin's eyes.

"I must confess I've been better," Noel said with a scowl. "It seems I'm to be deprived of the pleasure of cutting your English throat. My commander thinks we might be able to get some use out of you after all."

"You must be disappointed."

"Absolutely gutted. But I live in hope."

"Hope springs eternal," Bodie said as glibly as he could manage.

"He doesn't hope as much as I do, Dead Man." Never far from his brother, Liam had come up quietly on Bodie's other side. Bodie ignored him and turned his attention back to Noel.

"So, what happens now?"

"Now, you go back up to your room like a good lad and get packed up. We've got some business to attend to here. It'll take us a while, but when we're done, we'll be taking you across the border. Tonight."

"And once we're in Armagh? Don't tell me I'm going to be staying with one of you."

"There're some sacrifices that are too great for the cause, and having you stay at the farm with us would be one of them. Mo's agreed to take you in."

"Mo?" Maureen Bodie had been the only one of his Irish cousins that Bodie had got on with, all those years ago.

"Yeah. Her man ran off last year. She could use some help around the house." Noel gave him a nasty smile. "Not to mention that she has orders to keep a close eye on you."

"I'll bet she does," Bodie said under his breath.

Noel ignored the muttering, but he did pull Bodie roughly to his feet and stared him down with eyes that were far too shrewd.

"Just be sure you understand this, Dead Man: we don't care who you are. You're being taken in because of what you know. And because you've already got military training. You follow orders, tell us what we need to know, but otherwise you keep your mouth shut. Talk back, question commands, or get caught spying for the English, and there won't be enough of you left to feed to Liam's pigs."

"Ah, love of family. It's a grand thing." Bodie knew the fake Irish accent would get up Noel's nose, and it did. But he hadn't reckoned on Noel burying his fist in his gut. He doubled over, winded, as Liam laughed.

"That's your first warning, Dead Man," Noel said in his ear. "You won't get a second. Arse about and you'll wish you'd never told a joke in your life. Are we clear?"

"As crystal," Bodie said, forcing himself to remain calm when what he really wanted to do was knock Noel's head off his shoulders.

"Off with you, then. Wait upstairs ‘til we come for you."

Bodie didn't need to be told twice. He headed up to his room and closed the door behind him, putting the ladder-back chair under the doorknob. Knowing the Irish mob, they'd be a while, and there'd be alcohol involved in whatever business they had downstairs, but he didn't want them coming into his room too soon. Not when he had a job to do.

The door secured, Bodie opened the window and made sure he wasn't being observed. Then he scrambled down the drainpipe that ran outside his window, dropping to the ground as quietly as he could manage. Which, given his training, was very quietly indeed. He'd had this escape route planned out since his first full day here, guessing he'd need to use it at some point.

Before he crossed into the north, he had to get a message to Cowley.

Only one of the houses that didn't have a tapped phone was empty, the family having left on a fortnight's family visit to Dublin a few days ago. Bodie made his way there quickly, and slid in through a back window that had been left unlocked, thanking the trusting nature of the house's inhabitants. He found the phone in the lounge and dialled the number Cowley had given him. He was stupidly disappointed when instead of the Cow, he got only an impersonal answering machine message. It would have been nice to talk to someone who wasn't looking for a reason to kill him. Still, he swallowed his disappointment and waited for the message to end so he could deliver his report.

And deliver it he did, efficiently listing names and descriptions of the IRA men he had encountered and the fragments of information on bombings and killings he'd managed to pick up by keeping his mouth shut and his ears open.

When he was finished, he paused and nearly hung up. But he'd been starved for too long of real human contact, and he felt the need to talk to Cowley, to anyone who knew him, even if it was through the medium of a dumb piece of electronics.

"Everything's going well so far, sir. Noel and Liam, well, they threatened to kill me, as expected, but they haven't done it yet. And they're putting me up with Maureen. She's Noel and Liam's sister, but she's the only one of the whole mad family that I ever liked. Shouldn't be too bad. And one of your dead drops isn't even a mile from her farm.

"I'd tell you to give Doyle my best, but I know you can't. So, I'll just ask you to watch him for me. He's a canny bastard, almost as bad as you, so don't assume he won't look for me just because you ordered him not to. I don't want you to give him the elbow off the squad because of me.

"Take care, sir. I'll use the dead drops, but I doubt I'll be able to call for quite some time. It was difficult enough to find a phone these lads hadn't tapped in Dundalk. I doubt I'll be quite so lucky in Armagh.

"When this is all over, you can stand me a glass of your best malt whisky. Hell, you can stand me the bottle."

Bodie hung up, the receiver making an unnaturally loud clatter in the empty house. He looked at the phone and was stuck by a sudden impulse to cut and run, to head for Africa, for South America, for Thailand. To light out for anywhere that neither the IRA nor British Security Forces could find him.

But he knew he couldn't do that.

For a start, duty bound him to his present course, as duty had bound him all his adult life. And as always, duty was a double-edged sword. Without commitment to it, he wouldn't be on this fucking mission, but he also likely wouldn't be the sort of man that Cowley would have recruited in the first place. The Cow had a habit of recruiting madmen—even Murph, the calmest of the lot of them, was an insane bastard when the moment called for it—but his madmen always had an over-developed sense of duty, of loyalty, of justice. Buried under layers of cynicism and suspicion, but there all the same. Doyle wasn't the only idealist amongst them; he was just the only one who wore the badge on his sleeve.

And Doyle was the other reason he couldn't run. If he did disappear back into the twilight world of guns for hire and fighting other people's wars, he'd be running forever. And he'd never see Doyle again. And that possibility was just not on. He'd rather face death than face a future without the irritating sod in his life. Because when it came right down to it, he loved the bastard.

Stupid that he'd only admitted it to himself now, when there was every possibility that he'd end up dead before he could see Doyle again, but that's how it went.

Bodie found the strength in his legs deserting him. He slipped down the wall, only stopping when his arse hit the floor, and he let out an undignified "oof."

He leaned his forehead on his knees and tried to slow the breaths that were starting to come in great, uncontrolled gasps. He shed no tears—it wasn't in him to cry—but he did feel a tell-tale stinging in his throat as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and forced himself to breathe normally.

Fuckin' hell, Doyle would laugh himself stupid if he could see him now. Not to mention Noel and Liam.

The thought of his cousins forced him to his feet. If those two mad bastards went looking for him before he returned, the Cow really would have to deliver his farewell message to Doyle. And more than anything else, he wanted to live until he saw Doyle again.

He left the house, shivering in the chill of the night, making sure no one had marked his passing and he had left no sign. He made his way back to his room, which was where Noel and Liam found him waiting hours later, sitting on the bed, bergen packed and ready to go.

* * *

"...you can stand me the bottle."

Cowley stopped the tape and looked over his notes. He'd already listened to Bodie's message twice, had already transcribed all the relevant information, but he'd just wanted to hear the lad's voice one more time. To sift through Bodie's controlled tones for some clue as to his state of mind. 

He knew what they thought of him, all the agents under his command. He knew they considered him a cold-hearted bastard who'd send his own mother into an ambush if he thought that was what the mission called for. And they weren't wrong. He was too aware of what the stakes were to be soft when it came to making tough decisions.

But the tough decisions always cost him. And this one had cost him more than most.

He professed to have no favourites amongst his lads and lasses, but that was a polite fiction, and everyone knew it. He had a special fondness for the 4.5 and 3.7 team.

In Doyle he saw himself 30 years ago. A young hothead, violent but principled, making his own difficult way through the complex ethical terrain offered by their trade. He had great hopes for Doyle, and for that reason pushed him harder than almost any other agent. Doyle had a good mind, when he was forced to use it. And when he didn't let his passions overwhelm him.

And Bodie...ah, Bodie was a tough one. He knew what most people saw when they looked at 3.7: a thug, trained to violence, preferring blunt fist over velvet glove. But Cowley saw so much more than that. He saw the boy who'd fled from a home life he wouldn't have wished on his worst enemy. He saw the young man who had struggled to educate himself when he was surrounded by cruelty and barbarity. He saw the young soldier who had returned to his home country and sought the legitimacy of a military career when he could have kept to the shadow world he'd emerged from and, if he'd survived, become a wealthy man. 

Though he'd never admit it to anyone, least of all the man himself, Bodie was as close to a son as he was likely to have this lifetime. And he had a suspicion that Bodie saw him in something of a paternal light as well, a replacement for the drunken bastard who'd never been worth the title of father. 

And what had he done to Bodie? Only thrown him into the maw of the Troubles, into the midst of a struggle that had been chewing up men, women and children for hundreds of years. 

Cowley sighed. He had no doubt that he was destined for a particularly grim corner of hell for what he had done, and what he would continue to do. He knew the men and women of CI5 saw him as a pious Bible thumper, certain of his own salvation, but they were dead wrong. He kept going to the kirk not because he saw himself as blameless, but to expiate sins he was certain could never be forgiven.

And this latest sin was compounded. Not only had he put 3.7 in harm's way, but he'd torn asunder a relationship that was not only professional but very personal. He'd told Bodie that he'd known about his relationship with Doyle, and so he had. What he hadn't told Bodie was that he'd recognized the connection between them long before they'd seen it themselves. Had recognized it and, quite unofficially, welcomed it. They were searchers, the pair of them, and in each other they seemed to have found a measure of happiness in a world that seemed too often bounded by violence and brutality. He couldn't begrudge them that. He just hoped that his sin would not lead to Bodie's death.

Having sent Bodie off, he could do nothing to keep him safe but say his usual prayers to a vengeful and unknowable God. But he could look out for Doyle. Not that Doyle was going to make that easy.

He knew that Doyle had not given up the search for Bodie, and that agent 6.2 was abetting him. He didn't blame either of them, but he didn't want them catching wind of Bodie's location. It would not only jeopardize the operation, but it would be dangerous for 3.7 if two of CI5's finest were seen poking around in Armagh. The three of them would end up dead almost as soon as Doyle and his new partner landed on Irish soil.

He couldn't allow that to happen.

To prevent such a disaster, he'd use every resource at his disposal. He already had the pair of them working every available hour, with little enough time off to cause mischief. If that didn't seem to be enough, he was prepared to have another agent keep an eye on the movements of 4.5 and 6.2, making certain they didn't learn anything they shouldn't. And if they still managed to slip the leash, well, he'd throw the pair of them in jail. But if he were lucky, very lucky, they wouldn't hear a whisper about what was going on in Ireland until 3.7 was back in London, triumphant and whole.

He would have to take a great deal of care, the next few weeks. Care in managing Doyle and Murphy and even more care in handling Bodie's reports. With that thought in mind, Cowley removed the tape from the answering machine and replaced it with a fresh one. The one with Bodie's report he put in an envelope, neatly labelled with the date. The envelope and his notes he put in his personal safe, the one not even Betty had the combination for. He would share his report on Bodie's progress with his contact in MI5, and no one else. Locking the safe, he settled back in his chair, then bowed his head and said a special prayer for the well-being of one very isolated and exceptional agent.

* * *

Bodie made the trip to Armagh in the back of a clapped-out van that Liam used to transport pig feed, hidden under yet another tarp. His jacket was the only cushioning between his arse and the metal of the vehicle's floor, his bergen his only pillow. There was no heat in the van, and though it wouldn't even be October for over a week, it was cold enough that he had to concentrate to keep from shivering.

By rights, the journey shouldn't have taken much more than an hour, but Noel preferred to take the back roads, no doubt enjoying the thought of every bump and pothole rattling Bodie's spine and making his teeth chatter.

It was just before dawn when they arrived at their destination. Bodie was asleep when the lorry pulled into its final stop, waking with a start when the tarp was pulled abruptly off him.

"Wakey wakey, Dead Man," Noel said. "We're here."

"Where's here?" Bodie asked, forcing his mouth to speak the words only with difficulty, his brain still muzzy with sleep.

"The place you're gonna call home, is where. Mo's."

Bodie slung his bergen over his shoulder and stumbled out of the lorry, the grey of false dawn visible on the horizon. He found himself in front of a small stone house, with slate on its roof and flower boxes in its windows. Bodie stretched as he took in his surroundings. They were completely isolated, surrounded by fields of scrubby vegetation, with another farm house or two visible in the distance. Mo's house was half way up a hill, and in the valley beneath them, a morning mist curled and twisted, giving the place an otherworldly air. The house itself was slightly shabby, but small touches like the flower boxes made it look like someone cared for it. He could see a dilapidated barn just beyond the house, could hear the low clucking of chickens.

Bodie moved towards the house, stopping as Noel grabbed his arm.

"There's one thing you should know before you see Mo, Dead Man."

"What's that?"

"Mo's daughter was murdered a couple of years ago." Noel paused for a second and if Bodie hadn't known his cousin for a cold-blooded bastard, he would have said that Noel looked upset. "That's the reason her husband ran off. The stupid sod didn't have the bottle to stick it after their daughter died. Mo was stronger than he was."

"I'm sorry," Bodie said, and he honestly was. "I didn't even know she had a daughter."

"Well, now you do."

"Who killed her?" Bodie found himself hoping against hope that it had been a drunk driver or a stray IRA bullet that had taken his hitherto unknown young relative.

"One of your fucking British Army patrols."

"I've told you, they're not _my_ British Army," Bodie protested, feeling sick at the thought of Mo's child gunned down by a soldier.

"They'd better not be. Or we'll do to you what we did to the bastard that shot Jilly."

"I take it he won't be killing any more children."

"Not unless he can do it from beyond the grave, he won't." Bodie looked at Noel, at the rage burning in his eyes, and for a brief moment he saw not his mad arsehole of a cousin, but an uncle, broken by righteous grief at his niece's murder. And in that moment he could see all too easily what fed the Troubles, this constant cycle of killing and retribution. The dead slept badly in this country, and their nightmares infected the living.

"I'm sorry about Jilly," Bodie said, and he truly meant it, even as he also mourned for the poor squaddy who'd been so unlucky as to kill a child of the Bodie clan. He'd encountered his own horrors on his two tours in Belfast. He was only grateful that a dead child didn't number among them.

"You'd better be, Dead Man. And you'd better take care around Mo. If I find out you've upset her, I'll kill you."

"I'm not a monster, Noel."

"You're English, Dead Man, and that's the same thing." Noel removed his hand from Bodie's arm and approached the door, banging on it loudly.

"Mo," he yelled. "Shift yourself. We've brought you company."

Inside the house, Bodie could hear the sound of movement: feet on the stairs and someone fumbling with the locks.

"Hurry up, Mo," Noel said impatiently.

"Keep your shirt on," a woman's voice said. Then the door opened and there was Maureen Bodie standing in front of him.

Mo was five years older than he was, which meant she'd just turned forty. Bodie had last seen her when he was an awkward thirteen-year-old and she was a dark-haired teenager. Back then, she'd been striking rather than pretty. She was striking still, though life had aged her more than Bodie had expected. Whereas before her eyes had glittered with liveliness and mischief, now they were dull, and the dark of her hair was shot through with grey.

"Noel, you stupid bastard, can't you ever show up at a civilized hour?"

"Not my fault you're a slugabed, is it?" Noel said and breezed into through the door. "C'mon, Liam." His brother followed, the two of them clattering down the long, dark hallway. "I hope you've got the makings for a proper breakfast."

Bodie was left standing awkwardly in front of the house, staring at a woman he hadn't seen for more than twenty years, uncertain of his welcome.

Mo stared back at him with an unreadable expression, and Bodie shifted uncomfortably, all too aware that he was being judged.

"Hello, Will." Bodie started at the name. He'd been "just Bodie" for so long, his bid to escape from a name that reminded him too much of the bastard of a father whose name he bore, that he'd forgotten there was a time when he'd been Will to everyone he knew. He looked at Mo, her eyes as wary as her voice and gave her a tentative smile.

"'Lo, Mo."

"How've you been?"

"You know, keeping life and soul together as best I can. And you?"

"The same," Mo said. And then her face broke into a grin, her eyes began to sparkle and he was no longer looking at a near stranger, but the girl who'd kept her younger brothers from beating him senseless when he was a boy. "Come here, you," Mo said, sweeping him into a warm hug. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," Bodie said. And though he hadn't thought of Mo in years, Bodie found it was true.

"Let's go in. If we leave those two alone, there'll be no breakfast left for us."

"Can't have that now, can we? I'm a growing boy."

"You certainly did grow. You were a scrawny wee thing last time I saw you."

"I was never," Bodie said indignantly.

"You were. All big eyes and eyelashes. It was no wonder Noel and the boys picked on you."

"I'd like to see them try it on now," Bodie said.

As quickly as she'd smiled, Mo grew serious once again.

"Don't you cross them, Will. You don't know what they're capable of."

"I've got a fair idea."

"No, you don't. You really don't. They're looking for an excuse to kill you. Been talking about it for years. Been talking about nothing else for the past two weeks." Bodie could see real distress in Mo's eyes and he couldn't bear to be the cause of it.

"Don't you worry. I'll be a good boy and do what they tell me."

"You'd better. There're enough Bodies buried in the graveyards of this county. Now, come on. I'll make a special fry-up, just for you."

"That's what I like to hear," Bodie said as he followed Mo inside. He felt more optimistic than he had since Betty had summoned him to Cowley's office. Perhaps he had landed on his feet. Perhaps it would all work out.

Perhaps.

 

Breakfast was as pleasant as it could be, when it was shared with two members of your family who'd rather see you dead. But as she had when they were children, Mo had a civilizing influence on her brothers. Noel and Liam made no threats, veiled or otherwise, while Mo was in the kitchen with them.

The breakfast itself was everything Bodie could have hoped for—Mo had even made fried bread and beans—and he more than did it justice.

Bodie was wiping up the last bit of egg with a piece of toast when he saw a look pass between Noel and Liam. He sat up a bit straighter, knowing that look could only mean business.

"Mo, could you step out of the room for a minute?" Noel asked. "Give us a bit of privacy."

Mo looked at Bodie, and he nodded in reassurance.

"All right. But you'd all better behave yourselves while I'm gone." She left the room with a final glance in Bodie's direction, shutting the door behind her.

With Mo gone, Noel and Liam turned their full attention to Bodie. He found it an unpleasant sensation. As always, Noel did the talking.

"Before we leave, there're a few ground rules you need to know."

"I'd thought as much."

"First, you don't go anywhere by yourself. If one of us isn't with you, you make sure that Mo is. Second, you don't talk to anyone you haven't been introduced to. And then you only talk when you're spoken to."

"Christ, I feel like a boy in short trousers," Bodie said. Noel gave him a look, but ignored the comment.

"Third, you follow all orders from us or our commander, and you follow them without any lip."

"That all?"

"That's enough. If you break any of the rules..."

"Yeah, I know, Noel. You'll kill me. After a while it stops being a threat and starts being boring."

"We'll see if you think it's boring when I kneecap you."

Mo chose that moment to knock on the door and return to the room.

"You boys okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine. Just explaining the facts of life to the Dead Man here."

"I wish you wouldn't call him that." The shadows Bodie had seen at the front door had returned to Mo's face.

"It's all right, Mo," Bodie said. "Lets me know where I stand."

"You see you remember exactly where that is," Noel said, planting a finger in Bodie's chest.

"We should be off," Liam said. "Things to do."

"Yeah." Noel leaned forward and kissed his sister goodbye. "Take care, Mo. And keep an eye on this one."

"I know my job. Now off with you." Mo's tone was playful, but Bodie could hear a tension beneath it. He wondered what she thought of it, her brothers being in the IRA. Wondered if she believed in their cause. After her daughter's death, he wouldn't blame her for supporting the Republicans.

"I suppose we should get you settled in," Mo said. She nodded at his bergen. "Is that all you brought with you?"

"All my worldly belongings. It's hard to manage much more when you're on the run."

"Your room's upstairs. I imagine a big lad like you can carry his own bag up."

Bodie couldn't help it. He laughed, a harsh barking sound. 

"Did I say something funny?" Mo asked, a confused look on her face.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's nothing."

"It must have been something."

"You just reminded me of my partner." Bodie stopped for a moment before correcting himself. "Ex-partner, that is. The annoying git used to make me carry all of my luggage and most of his."

"Couldn't have been a very nice bloke."

"Nah, not very nice at all," Bodie said, the lie falling easily from his tongue. Better to lie than to have to think about the truth, to have to think about Doyle.

"Then you're well shot of him, aren't you? C'mon, I'll show you your room."

Bodie followed behind Mo as she showed him the lounge, then up the stairs past her room and the toilet before she opened the door to a small bedroom at the back of the house.

"This is yours," she said, turning on the light and throwing open the curtains.

Bodie stopped at the threshold, unwilling to enter the room. It had obviously belonged to Mo's daughter, to Jilly. The bedspread was pink and ruffled and covered with ballerinas, the dresser covered in stuffed animals. Across the room was a small bookcase with a collection of Enid Blyton novels.

"It's all right, Mo. I shouldn't stay here. I'll take the sofa."

"The sofa's crap for sleeping on, Will. The springs have gone. And anyway, it'll be nice to have family staying here."

"I don't know."

"Well, I do." Mo came over to where he was standing. "Now come in here and stow your kit away."

Bodie hesitated a few more seconds before he slowly entered the room. He hadn't had much to do with little girls since he'd been a little boy himself. And it was disconcerting to be surrounded by the possessions of one who'd been dead for two years.

He put down his bergen and sat on the bed, trying as best he could not to disturb anything. "If you insist."

"You needn't look like that, Will. You can't break anything in here. And you can't break me."

"Doesn't it bother you? Having me staying here?"

Mo looked down at him, the hesitancy she must have been hiding in front of her brothers clear in the set of her shoulders, in the way she bit her lip.

"I'm pleased to have you stay, Will."

"But..."

"But I wish it was just a family visit. I wish you weren't joining that lot." And that answered Bodie's question about Mo's position on the IRA.

"I didn't have much choice. It was Noel and his crew or Wormwood Scrubs."

"Prison might have been the better choice."

"It would have killed me." Bodie didn't have to invent an aversion to being locked up. Three months in a Congo prison had ensured a permanent hatred of confinement.

"That might yet happen."

Bodie let that go, Mo's comment too close to his own fears. Instead he looked around the room, at this museum to a girl dead and gone. "After what you've been through, I'm surprised you're not manning the barricades with Noel." He looked over at Mo and was pierced by regret as he saw a spike of pain in Mo's eyes.

"I can't do what they do, Will. I won't." She sat down beside him and put her hand gently on his arm. "Look what the constant need for revenge has brought this country. Death and suspicion and men like my brothers who bring nothing but terror to the rest of us." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I know you're joining them, but I've never wanted to tread the path they're on."

"So, why agree to take me in?"

"Because no one else was willing to. And if I hadn't done they were going to kill you."

"Kill me?" Bodie was surprised at how shocked he felt when he had been expecting exactly that.

"Noel was set to go back to Dundalk and put a bullet in your head. I couldn't let them do that."

"So, instead you've taken the IRA into your house."

"You're not..."

"Yes, I am, Mo. That's exactly what I am."

"I remember you. You're not like them. Not like Noel, and certainly not like Liam."

"I've been through a lot. I'm not the boy you remember."

"No, but I think you might be the man I'd hoped you'd become."

"A wanted fugitive."

"There's more to you than that. I can tell."

Bodie had no response to that, he could only drop his head and clench his jaw. Mo was more right than she knew, but there was no way that he could tell her exactly what he was. Because if he did trust her, what then? Would she still help him, or would she stop him from working against her brothers? If she found out he was working with the English against her own family, where would her loyalty lie? No, he decided as he raised his head, secrecy was his best course. His only course.

"I should be quiet and let you get some rest," Mo said. "You look knackered."

"I am," Bodie said, happy to change the subject. "It's not easy to sleep in the back of a van. Not on the roads that Noel took."

"I can imagine." Mo gave him a wry smile. "You get some sleep, and when you wake up I'll make you some lunch and take you for a drive around the neighbourhood. Get you familiar with things."

"Sounds lovely."

"See you in a few hours." Mo softly closed the door behind her and left Bodie alone.

Before the exhaustion lapping at the corner of his mind swamped him completely, he pulled out the contents of his bergen and put his Sig under his pillow, checking that it was loaded first. If Noel and his crew came for him while he slept, he wanted to have a fighting chance.

That bit of protection dealt with, he let his fatigue pull him under. He lay back on the bed and pulled up the ballerina bedspread, confident that he would fall asleep immediately. But for once his ability to sleep anywhere deserted him and he found himself with his eyes wide open, staring blankly at the room around him, his thoughts racing far beyond his ability to control them.

He thought he was going to like the woman Mo had become even more than the girl she'd been. He thought about her daughter, and wondered what sort of person she'd have grown into. He thought about Noel and Liam and what they would do to him if they ever found out about the double game he was playing.

And he thought about Doyle. 

He wondered what Doyle was doing, right this moment. It was...Tuesday. Cowley probably had him on some crap obbo. Be stuck in some stuffy attic room, flinging liver sausage sandwiches at Murphy, if he knew his Doyle. Murph hated liver sausage even more than he did.  
He wondered what Doyle was feeling. He wondered if Doyle hated him. Or if he suspected the truth about Bodie's disappearance. He didn't know what he'd feel if their positions were reversed. Would he hate Doyle for abandoning him? Or would he hold onto the love that he hadn't recognized until it was too late?

Finally, the exhaustion of his body overcame the racing of his mind and he slept, lost in a maze of unquiet dreams where Doyle chased him through rain-slicked streets but never managed to catch him.

* * *

Bodie woke with a start at a hand laid on his shoulder. It took him a second to remember where he was, a second during which he automatically reached for the gun under his pillow.

"Will?" Mo's voice sounded tentative. "You all right?"

"Yeah," he sat up and rubbed his face with one hand. "Just an adjustment. Waking up in a new place."

"I brought you a cup of tea." She nodded at the bedside cabinet where a steaming mug sat. "And there's a sandwich waiting for you downstairs. When you've eaten, we'll go out for that drive. I'll show you around. Introduce you to a few people."

"Sounds good," Bodie said, even knowing that anyone Mo introduced him to would be under orders to keep an eye on him, same as she was. "But what about the Brits? Aren't we liable to run into a patrol?"

"Noel called and told me there're no Army patrols out in this area today, so it should be safe enough for you. We might hit an IRA checkpoint, but that's it."

"Duelling checkpoints in this area, are there?"

"Declan and his crew run more checkpoints than the Army. To prove they can do it, more than anything. And to show everyone who's really in charge."

"Brilliant," Bodie said without really meaning it. "Give me a few minutes to drink my tea and wash my face, and then I'll be down."

Mo left without another word.

The first thing he did was go to the bathroom and scrub his face with a flannel in an effort to wake up. The second thing he did was check his weapons. He pulled the Sig out from under his pillow, tested the clip and confirmed there was a bullet up the spout. Then he pulled on his holster and slid the Browning home within it, hiding the rig under his leather jacket. Noel and Liam had searched his bergen, but had charitably left him his weapons, and he was damned if he'd go around this snake pit unarmed.

Feeling somewhat more secure, he slurped down the tea Mo had provided and then clumped down the stairs to join her.

Mo's farm was miles from the nearest village, a rough patch of land that must have been difficult to keep up with her husband not around. Much of it had reverted back to scrub. Mo told him she'd managed to keep up a coop of chickens and a few cows in the barn, but otherwise she survived on the wages she earned working as a shop assistant in Crossmaglen.

Once they were outside, Mo opened the door to a battered shed, revealing a decrepit Mini, one of its headlights bashed in, rust beginning to show on its side panels.

"You can't expect me to ride in that," Bodie said disparagingly. "I've got a reputation to maintain."

"You may have a reputation in London, but you're not there now, boyo."

"Forget my reputation. That thing must be a bloody death trap."

"Stop your whinging. Bessie'll do you fine." Mo patted the bonnet before opening the driver's door and hopping inside.

"Bessie? You never named it after Doctor Who's car?" Bodie would have died before letting Doyle know he watched a kid's program, but he didn't mind sharing that weakness with his cousin.

"I didn't." Mo smiled. "Jilly did."

"She was a Bodie, all right. Daft, the lot of us."

"Shut up and get in before I swat you one."

Bodie made a face, but he got in the passenger's seat, longing for a CI5 Capri as he did so.

"Fine. We can take Bessie. But as soon as I'm sorted here, I'm getting my own transport. I've got enough dosh to pick up a nice, used motorbike."

"Yeah, yeah," Mo said. "We'll see how much you want to drive a bike the first time it pisses down rain."

"I've driven in rain before."

"English rain. Not good Irish rain."

"African rain, too."

"Oh, I'd forgotten his nibs had been to Africa. And deigning to spend time with me, who doesn't even make the trip to Belfast from one year to the next."

"That's enough of that." Bodie poked his cousin in retaliation.

"Oy, no hitting the driver," Mo said as she gunned the engine and pulled out onto the road. 

As he was tossed back against his seat, Bodie grinned. Mo's mad driving style marked her as a Bodie, if nothing else did. Bessie may have been a geriatric transport, but Mo drove it through the country roads as if it were a racing car, pushing her into the higher gears, only to slam down into first when they met another car or a hairpin curve.

Mo took Bodie all over the countryside, stopping at each farmhouse to introduce Bodie to her neighbours. He met Mr. Doherty in the next farm over, who helped Mo look after her farm, and Mrs. Burke, whose husband was in the Maze prison. He met Mo's best friend, Lorna, who told embarrassing stories about Mo and gave Bodie leering looks that he returned with polite disinterest.

They did not go into Crossmaglen. With an Army barracks in the middle of the town, chances were too great that they'd run into a patrol on the streets of the town.

Everyone was friendly, everyone welcomed him, but Bodie could see a wariness in their eyes that told him that they had all been warned about him. He knew that none of them trusted him, and in return he couldn't trust them. Except to inform on him to the IRA if he was caught doing something he shouldn't. And he was always going to be doing something he shouldn't.

Mo's tour itself he treated as a recce, a way of familiarizing himself with the terrain. He began to memorize roads and routes, to determine how best to get to the border, to Crossmaglen, to Belfast. The knowledge might save his life if he had to run. And given this assignment, it was likely that he'd have to run, sooner or later.

When the sun began to drop towards the horizon, Mo turned Bessie back to the farm. As they pulled into the yard, Bodie pointed to the north, the one direction they hadn't yet explored.

"No one I need to meet up there, then?"

Mo shook her head. "No. That's Proddy territory. No one there the likes of you should know."

"I didn't realize there were any Protestants in this area."

"Not many, but the few there are live around Newtownhamilton." She nodded her head to the north. "There's an Army barracks up there too. More exposed than the one in Crossmaglen. The Crossmaglen lads are so dug in they're never seen in town unless they're in a patrol and fully armed. The squaddies in Newtownhamilton can walk around without risking a bullet or a bomb. Not a place for you."

"Not unless I fancy prison, it isn't." Bodie grinned, even as he filed away the information that Newtownhamilton was a possibly friendly destination if he got himself in trouble. "Thanks for the warning."

"You're welcome. Now get yourself inside and I'll get your tea on."

Where food was concerned, Bodie didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

The next morning, Noel and Liam turned up at Mo's door as Bodie was finishing his breakfast.

"C'mon, Dead Man," Noel said, a sour look on his face. "Someone wants to meet you."

"Who's that, then?"

"No questions, Dead Man. Just get in the back of the car and keep your head down. We don't want any patrols catching sight of you."

Bodie fetched his jacket from his room. He looked longingly at his Browning for a moment before stuffing it back in his bergen. He was grateful they'd left him his guns, but he didn't think Noel and his friends would appreciate him bringing one on his first meeting. Still, he did stuff a switchblade down his boot. He felt naked being in this country without a weapon of any description.

Bodie spent an uncomfortable half hour riding in the back of Noel's battered Cortina, lying across the back seat so he couldn't be easily seen.

"I don't see why I can't bung a hat and glasses on my head and sit up like a regular human being."

"You're lucky we didn't stick you in the boot," Liam said looking back over his shoulder, and the smile on his face told Bodie that his cousin would like nothing better than to see him travelling alongside the spare tyre.

Finally, Noel brought the car to a halt.

"You can sit up, now."

"Ta," Bodie said and did just that. As he stretched his back and neck, he could see they were in the yard of a large, bustling farm complex. From what he could tell, lying in the back of the car, they'd come mostly south, so he reckoned they were close to the border.

"This way," Noel said, and Bodie followed obediently, with Liam trailing behind him. Noel led them to an outbuilding beside a large barn. He opened the door and pushed Bodie through.

Bodie blinked furiously, trying to adjust to the dim light of the building after the brightness of a sunny morning. Soon enough, he could see that there were four other men already in the building, sitting on hay bales and packing cases.

Liam put a hand on Bodie's back and pushed him forward, making him stumble slightly.

"Dec, this is my cousin." Noel moved forward so he stood between Bodie and the man who was clearly the leader of this crew. "Will, this is Declan Harris. Dec, Will Bodie."

Bodie immediately recognized the man from Cowley's file. Harris was an average-sized man of middle years with pleasant features and a larger-than-life presence. He shook Bodie's hand and gave him a cheerful grin.

"I've heard so much about you, Will. We're looking forward to you joining our happy band."

"I'm looking forward to it as well, Mr. Harris."

"Call me Dec. Everyone else does." Dec gave Bodie a hearty pat on the back. "Now come over here and I'll introduce you to the rest of the lads."

Bodie couldn't help it; he liked Declan Harris right away. Even knowing what the man was capable of, knowing the atrocities he'd planned and committed, Bodie found himself falling under his spell. 

There are certain men who have the gift of leadership. Call it charisma or demagoguery or sheer force of will, but whatever you call it, the end result is that others will follow a man who possesses that indefinable quality.

George Cowley had it—his agents would follow him to hell and back, for all that they complained about his slave-driving ways—and Bodie had had a sergeant and officer or two in the forces that he'd have gladly died for.

Declan Harris was another such a man. Bodie knew that within seconds, and the thought put the fear of God into him. Bad enough that he'd been thrown into the usual insanity of Northern Ireland. Having an opponent with a genuine flair for leadership, one who inspired absolute devotion in his men, was going to make it infinitely worse. Bodie was going to have to watch himself very carefully indeed. Show a single hint of weakness, or the merest suggestion that he was still working for CI5 and he'd be well and truly fucked.

The rest of Dec's crew were a mixed lot. Regan McFadden was young, barely in his twenties, and as friendly as a large puppy. Bodie reckoned McFadden might be worth cultivating. Friendly blokes were more liable to give away information they shouldn't. Clancy Adair was about Bodie's own age, and greeted Bodie with cautious respect. It wouldn't do to underestimate Adair—he was clearly professional—but Bodie was confident he could handle him. But Conleth Rourke was another story.

Rourke was Harris' second in command, and while he didn't have Harris' gift for leadership, Bodie could see right away that the man had a sharp mind. Drop his guard around Rourke, even for an instant, and Bodie knew he'd be dead before nightfall, with Noel and Liam first in line to pull the trigger.

He tried to ignore that knowledge as he got to know these men, tried to be as relaxed as possible. Succeeding in his mission depended on these men trusting him enough to share their darkest secrets with him. Secrets they only gave to one of their own.

Introductions over, everyone took a seat and Harris began their meeting.

"Everyone knows that Will's asked to join our little band. And you all know that he's been in CI5 and the British Army."

"Not just the Army, Dec," Liam said. "The bloody SAS."

"Yes, Liam, the SAS. And that means we'll have to be careful around Will for a bit." Dec smiled apologetically at Bodie. "I'm sorry Will, but you understand."

"Makes sense, Dec," Bodie allowed.

"But once Will checks out and we're sure of him, then he'll become an asset. A very important asset. He'll be able to fill us in on Army and SAS routine. And he's had the best training our enemies can offer, training he can pass on to us."

"You don't expect us to pass SAS selection now, do you?" Clancy said sceptically. "Those bastards are completely mad."

"There's more to Regiment training than hiking up mountains with a pack full of bricks," Dec assured him. "Their weapons training, for a start, could put us all to shame. Isn't that right, Will?"

"Yeah. They're not bad at setting ambushes either. I reckon you lads wouldn't mind improving those skills."

"We wouldn't at that," Dec said. "But before that, Will has to check out. So, here's how we're going to arrange that. Every afternoon, you'll come here and tell us what you know about Irish operations. CI5, MI5, SAS, the lot."

"I don't have much recent intel," Bodie said. "CI5 works mainly in England and I haven't been stationed here for years."

"We'll take anything you know, recent or not. It can all help with the struggle." Harris' voice was calm and reassuring. "When we've picked your brains enough for the day, you'll be training this lot on weapons."

"We know how to shoot a gun," Rourke said, a frown on his face.

"Not like Will does. Right, Will?"

"I reckon I can improve your accuracy. And your speed."

"Good man," Dec said, and Bodie felt for all the world like a schoolboy who'd been praised by a favourite teacher.

"He could tell us anything he wants. How do we know we can trust him?" The look Rourke gave Bodie told him clearer than words how little Rourke wanted to work with him.

"We'll be checking what he tells us against what we know. And I've got a few of our lads in England checking out his story as well. Anything doesn't ring true and–"

"He's for the chop," Liam finished, an all-too-enthusiastic grin on his face.

"Not too diplomatic, Liam, but true." Dec gave Bodie a trusting look. "But I've got a good feeling about Will. I think he'll be a full volunteer before you know it."

"I hope so, Dec," Bodie said, trying to look as nonchalant and confident as possible. "If I'm to spend my afternoons here, what about my mornings?"

"Your mornings are your own, so long as you don't stray off Mo's farm. Noel thought you might want to help Mo out with work on her place."

Bodie nodded in agreement. If nothing else came of this bloody assignment, he could at least make sure Mo got new tiles on the roof and a barn with no holes. "So, when do I start telling you what I know?"

"No time like the present, is there?" Harris stood and stretched. "Come into the kitchen. I'll make you a cup of tea and you can start telling us about your time in the Paras." Harris spared a look for Rourke and the others. "The rest of you know what your jobs are."

And just like that, Bodie was that much closer to joining the IRA.

* * *

Running down the whereabouts of one Martin Martell, better known to his many acquaintances and few friends as Marty, had been anything but a doddle. It had taken Doyle and Murphy three weeks to manage it. Three weeks of waiting, fruitlessly, for Kevin Ranson to contact them with news of either Bodie or Martell. Three weeks of sneaking off between the non-stop obbos and babysitting assignments Cowley seemed determined to give them. Doyle was certain there had been a time when he'd had down time between assignments, but he was rapidly forgetting what it felt like.

Exhausted as he was, he nearly didn't answer the phone when it rang just after midnight. It was the first time he'd slept in his flat in days and he was so knackered he didn't know if he could handle a call out. He had no illusion that it could be anything else at that time of the night.

But duty overcame fatigue, and he snagged the receiver on the tenth ring, only to be greeted not by the Scottish tones of George Cowley, but a growly Geordie voice that he'd never heard before.

"Ray Doyle?"

"Yeah." Doyle sat up and rubbed a hand across his face, trying desperately to wake up. "Who's this?"

"Never mind who it is. I heard you're looking for Martell."

That woke Doyle right up. "Yeah, I am. You know where I can find him?"

"Better than that. I know where he lives."

"Where's that, then?"

The Geordie gave him an address in an exclusive part of Kensington. Doyle whistled. Seemed the arms business paid rather well. "You got that?" his mysterious informant asked.

"Yeah. Listen, who are you?"

"Told you not to mind that."

"But why tell me this?"

"Heard you're Bodie's partner. And his friend."

"That I am."

"Well, Bodie's a friend of mine, too. Or was, a long time ago. I reckon if I help you, I help him. And it sounds like he needs help."

Doyle processed that for a few seconds before he could manage a "thanks" down the line. The man hung up before he could say anything else, leaving Doyle wondering exactly what jungle Bodie had met this particular Geordie in, and what he'd done to earn his friendship. He'd have to ask the bastard when he finally caught up to him.

But before that, he had to trap Marty Martell in his lair. But not alone.

He picked up the phone again and dialled a number that he'd only memorized in the last month.

"Hullo." Murphy sounded, if possible, even more tired than Doyle felt.

"'Lo Murph."

"Damn it, Doyle. I thought it was Cowley." There was a sniff at the other end of the line. "This better be important."

"How'd you like to pay a visit to Bodie's gun-running friend?"

"You got an address?"

"Yeah. Courtesy of one of Bodie's admirers. Sounded like a most unsavoury sort of bloke."

"Unsavoury or not, if he gave you Martell's address, he's a prince to me."

"Me too, Murph. So, d'you fancy playing lookout while I imitate Raffles?"

"Now?"

"What better time? Besides, given how hard Martell's been to track down, I don't want to give him time to find out his location's been compromised. He'd scarper faster than Betty at a CI5 piss-up."

"Fair enough. But if you get caught by a local plod, you're on your own."

"Never happen. I've had an expert or two show me a few tricks over the years."

"Yeah, Bodie told me about Marge Harper and her infatuation with you."

"He was just jealous. Salt of the earth, Marge."

"I'll just bet."

"Bet all you like, but you be ready in fifteen minutes. I'll wait outside your flat."

"I'll be ready in ten."

Doyle hung up and threw on his clothes. Dark ones, for this sort of job, and finished off with his gun and a lock pick kit he'd liberated from a suspect years ago. He knew it wasn't a sure thing that Marty would know anything, but he felt more hope than he had for weeks. Hope that Marty would know exactly where Bodie was. Hope that he'd have proof that Bodie wasn't guilty of the things he was accused of. Hope that his life could return to normal.

* * *

Marty Martell had not always lived in a leafy, genteel, and very expensive corner of Kensington. There had been times when he'd laid his head in bombed-out buildings and in stinking jungle camps. Times when the ability to wake at the sound of a snapped twig or the whisper of an enemy's breath meant the difference between life and death.

Old habits died hard.

Marty woke from a deep, dreamless sleep with the absolute certainty that someone had entered his flat. That such a person was uninvited went without saying. That he, or she, had managed to break in without setting off Marty's alarm system told him that he was dealing with a professional.

Sliding his hand under his pillow, he silently pulled out the Makarov that had taken him from the jungles of Africa to the wilds of London. He flicked off the safety and slipped easily from the bed, grateful that he'd long since learned his lesson about the dangers of sleeping _au naturel_. He crouched by the side of the bed, his weapon aimed steadily at the door, ears prickling for sounds of his unwelcome guest.

There was a slight whisper, as of fabric brushing against a wall, and then the creak of a floorboard he knew was mere steps from his bedroom door. He licked his lips, adjusted his grip on the gun, and placed his finger lightly on the trigger guard.

A minute passed with no movement from his intruder or himself. Just as Marty was beginning to wonder if he'd imagined everything, there was a voice in the hall.

"It's only me, Marty. You can put the gun down."

"And who's me when he's at home?" Marty said, unable to place the voice, though it was one he knew he'd heard before.

"Ray Doyle. Bodie's partner." There was the sound of footsteps in the hall and then Doyle came through the door, his own gun held loosely in his hand, but not aimed. "Ex-partner, really."

"Doyle." Marty let his irritation bleed into the tone of his voice. "Hasn't anyone told you it's impolite to break into a man's home?"

"They must have taught that lesson when I was off skiving." Doyle shrugged his own gun into his holster, and then nodded at Marty's weapon, still aimed unswervingly at his heart. "You gonna put that thing away?"

"I don't know. Are you dangerous?"

"I'm always dangerous, Marty." Doyle smiled, but even in the dim light of his darkened bedroom, Marty could tell there was no real amusement behind the expression. "But not to you. Not at the moment."

"Well, then, I suppose I can be magnanimous." He carefully snapped the safety back on and placed the gun on his bedside cabinet. Then he stood, not enjoying being on his knees in front of another man. Unless that was what he was in the mood for, of course. "What can I do for you, Doyle?"

"Bodie." Doyle looked at him sharply, doubtless observing his reactions and judging each turn of the head, each breath drawn.

"Bodie? I thought he'd disappeared." Marty kept his tone mild and his expression neutral.

"He has."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"You tell me."

"I haven't the slightest idea, dear boy."

"Well, then let me tell you a little story, Marty." Doyle moved into the room, fluid as a cat, and sat his rather attractive arse on the ledge of the bay window. Doyle stared at Marty for a long moment, no doubt deciding what tack would get him what he wanted. Marty had made a career of not letting anyone read his intentions, so he stood impassively until Doyle was ready to speak. And speak he finally did. "Once upon a time there was a CI5 agent called Bodie. Word came down from on high that he was dirty."

"Are any of us truly clean?" Marty asked, interrupting. Never did any harm to throw the other fellow off his game. 

"Dirty," Doyle repeated with emphasis, but otherwise ignoring the interruption. "So Bodie had to get out of the country fast. And in the deepest wilds of Kensington he had a fairy godmother who did a bit of weapons trading on the side."

"Smart fairy godmother."

"Yeah," Doyle said, eyes narrowed and mouth grim. "Do you want to hear the rest of this or not?"

"By all means." Marty smiled in way that he was certain would infuriate Doyle and was rewarded with an even grimmer look. "Continue."

"Seems Bodie's fairy godmother was good at smuggling. Smuggling guns and people. And she agreed to help smuggle Bodie out of the evil castle of London to safety."

"What a brilliant fairy godmother," Marty said.

"Wasn't she?" Doyle shifted but didn't let his stare drift from Marty's face. Marty might have found such focused attention disconcerting if he hadn't been enjoying it quite so much. "Bodie's partner didn't think he was quite so dirty. So he ventured deep into Kensington to ask the fairy godmother a question."

"And what question is that?"

"Where's Bodie?" Doyle leaned forward, eyes shining in the dim light from the streetlight outside. He exuded a menace that, accustomed as Marty was to dealing with villains and hard cases, still gave him a moment's pause. But only a moment's. He wouldn't have lasted long in this business if he allowed himself to be intimidated by anyone. Even a furious CI5 agent.

"Now, why would I tell you anything?"

"Devotion to your country?"

"Be serious, Doyle."

"How about this, then?" Doyle bared his teeth in an expression that had absolutely nothing in common with a smile. "You don't tell me what I want, and I'm going to make your life a living hell. Bodie kept CI5 out of your business; I'll put the squad right in the middle of it. There won't be a deal you can make without George Cowley hearing wind of it. You ship a slingshot to a schoolboy at Eton and we'll be there to arrest you."

"You wouldn't dare." Marty kept his tone languid and easy.

"Oh, I would." Doyle's eyes narrowed, and Marty knew at once that he was in the presence of a very dangerous predator indeed. "I'm vindictive and I'm persistent and I will absolutely make good on that threat and more."

Marty felt every muscle in his back, his arms, his legs, tighten. He kept his breathing slow, but only with difficulty. He briefly wished he still had his gun in his hand and could have shot this particular CI5 agent and tipped him into the Thames. Except that he knew if Bodie survived whatever stupidity he was involved in and found out, the life of Marty Martell wouldn't be worth tuppence.

Bad choices were the only ones Marty was left: kill Bodie's ex-partner and incur Bodie's wrath, leave Doyle free and face the harassment of CI5. Or break Bodie's confidence. There was only ever one choice he could make.

"You told me a story? Let me return the favour." He sat down on the bed, leaned back against the very expensive down pillows, and feigned an ease that had long since left him. "Once upon a time there was a CI5 agent who very badly wanted to get out of London. So he went to see his fairy godmother, who waved her wand and saw him on Ireland's pleasant shores through the magic of modern transportation and smuggling routes. But before he left, he gave the fairy godmother a warning. That if the not-so-handsome prince came looking for him, the fairy godmother was to stay silent about what she'd done or the CI5 agent would have her bollocks for breakfast." He raised an eyebrow in Doyle's direction. "Do we have an understanding?"

Doyle nodded. "I won't tell him where the gen came from. Even assuming I find him."

"Good."

"Now, where is he?"

"I just told you, Doyle. Or weren't you paying attention?" Though he knew he was playing with fire, Marty couldn't resist provoking Doyle just a bit more.

"Where is he, exactly? Ireland's a big place."

"Well, he landed near Mooretown, south of the border. That's the last real word I have of him, although I've heard rumours that he stayed in Dundalk for a time. I've no idea where he went after that. And remember, you heard none of this from me."

"Stupid fucker," Doyle said quietly under his breath. It was hard to tell in the silvery light of the darkened bedroom, but Marty would have sworn that Doyle went a few shades paler than his usual hue. "Why Ireland? Was it his choice or yours?"

"His. He asked me to get him there."

Doyle frowned and bit his lip, and wasn't _that_ interesting. "Did he tell you why?"

"Just that he didn't like what England had done to him and wanted a bit of his own back." Marty frowned. "Which didn't sound quite like the Bodie I know. But then again," he shrugged, "people change."

"Fuck." This time Doyle's profanity was less quiet, though his body was utterly still. He stood in front of Marty, head turned slightly so he could see out the window, the only indication that he wasn't a statue the almost invisible rising and falling of his chest.

Marty tilted his head and looked at Doyle, wondering how much the agent really knew about Bodie, wondering what hold Bodie had over him. Or what hold he had over Bodie, for that matter. He contemplated Doyle's form, the slim hips, the intriguing face, the furry chest revealed by an undone button, and felt the slightest twinge of regret that Bodie had always placed a very definite do not touch sign on Raymond Doyle. 

After far too many moments had passed, Marty finally moved. While he could have sat all night looking at Ray Doyle, Marty did not enjoy having CI5 agents taking up space in his bedroom. Not unless they were also taking up space in his bed, that is. A situation to which Doyle didn't seem at all likely to be amenable.

"If that's all, Doyle..." Marty rose to his feet and pointed one hand meaningfully at the door.

His unwanted visitor startled, as if he'd been miles away. "Sorry, Marty. I'll let myself out."

"No need, my dear boy." Marty followed him out the hall and to the door of the flat. "If you'll excuse me saying it, I want to make sure you're gone and that the locks have been reset. One unexpected guest in a night is quite enough."

* * *

Murphy sat silently in a darkened car on a darkened street, staking out a darkened flat and wondering what had gone wrong.

His life had never been like this before. A month ago he'd been what he'd always been, from his school days to the military and on to CI5: safe, reliable Alec Murphy. Always calm, never ruffled. Bodie had said more than once that he could teach his Shusai a lesson or two about Zen.

But then Cowley had called him into his office, told him Bodie was suspected of treason, asked him to keep an eye on Ray Doyle, and now look at him. Here he was, sitting in a car, waiting for a mate to illegally enter a civilian's flat with no warrant and no orders to fall back on. It all made him more nervous than he'd expected. He kept waiting for a light to snap on in Martell's flat, or for a panda car to pull up and Doyle to be hauled out in handcuffs.

He wondered what Cowley's reaction would be if that happened. Would he bail Doyle out, or let him rot in prison? Would he discipline Murphy for aiding and abetting a felony, or leave the criticism unspoken?

Hell, he didn't know what his own reaction would be. Would he try and charm the nice officers out of arresting a rogue CI5 agent? Would he try and break him out? Would he slink away into the night and hope nobody noticed him? Well, likely not the last. Calm he might be, but he was never a coward.

It was all Doyle's fault, the bastard. Talking him into naff schemes like this. Then again, Doyle wouldn't have been able to talk him into anything if Cowley hadn't made them temporary partners, so it must be Cowley's fault. Then again, neither Doyle nor Cowley would have anything to answer for if Bodie hadn't buggered off, the bastard.

Murphy's contemplation of who to blame for his current miserable condition was broken off when he saw movement from Marty's flat. He tensed, ready to step in and rescue whoever needing rescuing, including himself, but it was only Doyle, leaving through the front door.

"Well?" Murphy asked when Doyle was beside him in the passenger seat.

"The stupid pillock's in Ireland."

"Ireland?" Murphy's scalp prickled as the memory of what bullets and explosives and centuries of hate could do briefly overwhelmed him.

"Ireland," Doyle said, his face a grim mask. "According to Marty, it was Bodie's choice, if you can believe it."

Murphy didn't. He'd served in Ireland, same as Bodie had. They hadn't talked about it much, no more than the occasional veiled comment, the rare mention of an ambush sprung or a mate killed, but he knew Bodie would no more want to go back to that bloody country than he would. 

"He asked to go to Ireland. Just south of the border, the last Marty heard. And if the topic ever comes up with Bodie, Marty didn't tell us anything."

"Jesus." Murphy searched for something more intelligent to say and failed utterly. "There's definitely something not right about all this. He'd never go to Ireland by choice."

"No." Doyle's voice was quiet, subdued, all the fire gone out of it. He looked over at his erstwhile partner. Even given the late hour and unflattering light, Doyle looked rough. 

"You look like shite."

"Fuck off, Murph." 

"Are you sleeping at all?"

"Enough."

"From the look of you, I seriously doubt that."

"Listen, I won't let you down, all right? I have your back."

"That wasn't what I was worried about."

"Then drop it."

And he really should have. Dropped it. Had no reason not to. But he couldn't. Maybe it was the shock of knowing Bodie was in Ireland. Maybe it was the hour of night. Maybe it was the lack of sleep he'd been suffering himself, or maybe it was just a human need to let Doyle know that he wasn't alone, that someone else understood. Whatever it was, he found the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could call them back.

"You don't have to put up a front with me, Ray. I know."

"Know what?" Doyle's tone told him he had no idea what was coming. But Murphy couldn't stop his next comment any more than he could the first one.

"Know about you and Bodie. That you, well, you know..." He trailed off, unable to explain further, and unable to face the look of distress and anger that had appeared on Doyle's face. Well, at least it was clear that his strategy of not saying anything to Doyle after Ruth had dropped her little bombshell had been the right one. Though much good that did him now.

"What the fuck do you know about anything?"

"Nothing," he said, hoping Doyle would drop the whole topic.

"And _how_ do you know?"

"I don't, well, didn't," he blurted out, amazed at how quickly he was turning into a blithering idiot. "It was Ruth told me. She and the other girls figured it out." An idiot who would apparently shop his friends. Christ, he should recommend embarrassment to Cowley as an interrogation technique.

"The girls know?" Eyes wide, Doyle's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his curls.

"Don't worry, they haven't told anyone. Ruth made me promise not to tell the rest of the lads."

"Thank Christ she has a bit of sense, at least." Doyle leaned forward, his head on his hands, and took a deep breath. Murphy froze, struck by how fragile Doyle looked, as if he were constructed from spun glass and any careless movement would shatter him into a million sharp-edged slivers.

"You all right?" Murphy knew it was a daft question, but he had to say something and it was all he could think of.

"Yeah." Doyle straightened up, wiping at his nose with the back of one hand and giving a suspicious sniff that Murphy deliberately chose to ignore. "Just miss him, that's all." Doyle shook his head, as if he were shaking the bad memories out. "Something funny'll strike me and I'll think I have to tell Bodie about it. Then I remember, and I want to wring his fucking neck for pissing off without saying a word to me."

"We'll find him. Kev will come through, or another grass will. Then we'll find out what he's really up to. And we'll get him out of it."

"I bloody well hope so, Murph." Doyle put his head against the car's window and Murphy was struck again by his vulnerability. He hoped that they did find Bodie, and sooner rather than later. He didn't like to think what Doyle would be like if he had to face much more of this uncertainty.

"You want to take the wheel, Doyle? It's your car, after all."

"Nah." Doyle shook his head, keeping his eyes trained on the darkness that surrounded them. "The shape I'm in, I'd wrap us around a phone box. Why don't you drop me off and take the car home? You can pick me up in the morning."

Murphy didn't argue, even if it meant that with all the extra driving he'd get nearly an hour less rest than Doyle. He didn't begrudge Doyle the sleep. If he were any judge, and he knew he was, Doyle would be getting little enough of it until they finally found Bodie and brought his wretched hide back to London.

* * *

During his first days in Armagh, Bodie had reason to be glad of the three days he'd had holed up in the bedsit in London with nothing but Cowley's file to read. The Cow had not only given him information on the men he was to infiltrate, but also a raft of intelligence he could give away without compromising any current agents or operations. He began parcelling out that information, giving away just enough that he would appear cooperative, but not so much that he'd look like the plant he was.

He was also glad he'd had so many years of watching Cowley at work in interrogation. Dec was an expert, going back over the same ground time and again, looking for holes in Bodie's story, searching for inconsistencies that would mark him as a liar and a fraud.

Dec never once gave away his game, never showed Bodie what he really thought of him, never did anything but show him the we're-all-mates-together friendliness that he'd displayed from the beginning. And every day when Bodie left Dec's kitchen to take the rest of the brigade through hand gun and rifle drills on the makeshift target range, he wondered if he'd said something to show his hand, had done something that would give Liam the excuse he so clearly craved to take Bodie apart in the slowest, most excruciating way imaginable.

He used the drills to his advantage, beginning to build relationships with every member of the unit. As he'd expected, Regan was the easiest to win over. The lad learned quickly, and he responded well to praise. Clancy was beginning to warm to him as well. He took pride in his skills, and seemed intent on improving them under Bodie's tutelage. Only Conleth showed no sign of returning the friendship Bodie offered, and that worried Bodie. After all, if Conleth rumbled that he was a spy, Bodie was for the chopping block.

But then two weeks after he arrived and thirty-seven days since the nightmare had begun, Dec and the rest of the lads took him to their local in Cullyhanna, pulled out an Irish tricolour flag, had him swear an oath of allegiance to the Republic, and made him a full volunteer in the IRA. Then they toasted him with a pint of Guinness and welcomed him formally to their brigade. The night turned into a proper piss-up, with much back slapping and good humour. Regan treated him like a favourite older brother, Clancy bought him extra rounds, Conleth gave him the odd smile, and even Noel unbent enough to admit that Bodie's skill with a rifle was better than he'd ever seen. Liam was the only one who still seemed unhappy that he hadn't got to kill his cousin.

Bodie graciously accepted the praise and congratulations and even stood Liam a round of good Irish whisky.

By the end of the night, when the bloke behind the bar called time, and really meant it, Bodie was utterly legless. Dec and Regan tossed him into the back of Dec's car, and they careened off down country roads. Bodie wasn't sure how they made it to Mo's - Regan was as pissed as the rest of them and drove the car with wild abandon – but they did. 

Dec hauled Bodie out of the car, dropped him on Mo's doorstep, and then roared off to their next stop. And there Bodie stood, struggling not to shiver in the chill night air as he tried to work out how to fit his key in the lock and stay on his feet while doing it. He'd nearly cracked the key problem when Mo opened the door.

* * *

Maureen started awake to the sound of a car speeding down the road. Even as she cursed herself for a coward, her heart sped up and her breathing sounded harshly in her ears. Night time visits in Armagh were not usually social affairs. She'd known one too many neighbours who'd been woken in the middle of the night by masked men, whether Republicans or Ulstermen, only to receive a beating. Or worse.

But this night there were no sounds of glass breaking as a brick smashed a window, no crash of a door being broken down. Nothing but a hesitant scratching at the front door.

Pulling on her comfortably frayed robe, she first checked Will's room. It was empty, the bed still unslept in. Which answered the question of who was pratting about on her front step.

She descended the stairs, cursing her brothers and Will and any man who'd had the misfortune to be born into the Bodie clan, no good bastards, the lot of them.

The scratching sounds got louder as she approached the front door, and she impatiently threw the bolt and opened the door. Will pitched face first into the hall, his key held tightly in one hand, reeking of beer and whisky and stale smoke.

"'Lo Mo," Bodie said. He turned onto his back and looked at her with an expression of cheerful befuddlement.

"You're pissed," Maureen said, feeling a need to state the obvious.

"Nah. Juss ‘ad a few pints," Bodie said, over-enunciating the words as only the very drunk can.

"I doubt it was just a few, from the state of you." Mo grabbed an arm and hauled him to his feet so she could shut the door and keep out the cold. "C'mon, let's get you to bed. And mind you don't throw up on my carpet."

"'D never do that, Mo."

"That's what they all say." She pushed him up the stairs and he did his best not to stumble. "And what was the occasion? Not that my brothers usually need an occasion to drink to excess."

"I'm off probation. I'm a full volunteer in the IRA now. Took the oath and everything."

Maureen faltered at the top of the stairs. The flesh on her neck began to crawl and a spike of pure ice fired down her spine. She'd known this moment was coming, but somehow she hadn't quite believed it would really happen. From the moment Noel had come to her with a mad story of finding Will in Dundalk at a Republican pub, she had assumed it was all some sort of fever dream. The thought of Will participating in the bombings and kidnappings and killings that she knew Noel and his crew were up to their necks in was just impossible. Will was the one person from her childhood who wasn't tied up with the problem of Ireland. He'd been a scabby-kneed boy, pushed about by his Irish cousins and only wanting a bit of attention. She'd taken him under her wing immediately and protected him from the worst of the bullying and beatings. It was that instinct for protection that had led her to offer her house when Noel and Liam threatened to kill him if no place could be found for him. And now, what was he going to do but submit other people to the very terror she'd tried to shield him from.

It was unthinkable.

"Mo?" Will turned unsteadily and looked at her. Even drunk as he was, Will seemed to recognize there was something wrong.

"I don't want to know anything else, Will. When you're in this house, I don't want you to breathe a word about what you're doing with that lot. Not one word." Her voice sounded harsh, but she couldn't help it.

"Sorry, Mo." Will's face collapsed into an expression of abject misery. "Didn't mean to upset you."

And just like that, her anger collapsed. And as much as she hated what he was doing, she couldn't hate who he was.

"Not your fault, Will." She climbed the last few steps to join him at the top and took his arm. "I've just been surrounded by the Troubles for far too long. Can't face it anymore." She pushed him forward into his room. "Now, let's get you to bed so you can sleep off that skinful you've got."

"Okay." Bodie stumbled, sat down hard on the bed, and struggled unsuccessfully to undo his shoelaces.

"You're hopeless," she said, quickly undoing the laces and removing his shoes. She helped him pull off his jacket and made him drink a glass of water. Then she wrapped him in the bedspread and brushed a hand across his cheek as his eyes drifted shut, thinking automatically of all the nights she'd put Jilly to bed in this very room, another member of her family she couldn't protect from the Troubles. The pain of that grief was muted now, though always present. She just hoped that Will wasn't going to become another family member lost to Ireland's struggles.

"'Night, Mo."

"Good night, Will," Maureen said, her voice soft as she closed the door with a click.

She wandered back down to her own room, her thoughts conflicted as she tried to decide what would be worse: Will being killed after she'd taken him in to save him, another Bodie food for worms in this bloody country, or Will becoming a killer, taking other lives as his own had been threatened. It was an impossible knot to untangle, she thought, as she settled down in her own bed to catch what sleep she could.

* * *

Bodie woke up with a vicious hangover and only a shadow of the memory of what he'd done the previous night. He remembered taking the Republican oath and he remembered the first five or ten pints, but after that everything was a haze of alcohol and camaraderie. He reckoned it was probably better that way. As pissed as he'd been, he'd rather not know what he'd done. 

He sat up straighter as he remembered one thing: Mo putting him to bed. Mo asking him not to tell her any more about what he was doing.

Christ, it was bad enough that he'd had to leave London without telling Doyle what he was really up to. Now he'd disappointed the one member of his family that was worth a damn. Apart from his gran, that is, God rest her soul. He was sick of disappointing people and causing them pain, even if it was for Cowley's greater good.

He lay on his back, eyes closed and mouth slightly open as he slowed his breathing and tried to ease the pounding in his head. He wished he could stay here, cocooned in bed, without the need to face Noel, Liam, Declan Harris, and the fucking IRA.

As he lay there, he heard Mo downstairs. He could hear the clank of shuffled pots and pans, and the tinkle of plates and cutlery being set on the table. With no solutions awaiting him in this room, and no way of returning to sleep, he reckoned he might as well get up.

He couldn't quite face the violence of a shower, so he settled for a wash with a flannel before throwing on a pair of trousers and a shirt and heading down the stairs.

"Oh, my god," Mo said as he reached the kitchen. "The dead walk."

"Ha fuckin' ha, Mo." Bodie dragged his arse into the room and slouched into a chair at the table. "You wouldn't joke if your head felt like mine does."

"I wouldn't get into that state in the first place, boyo." Mo accompanied her words with a smile that told Bodie that if she hadn't forgotten their discussion of last night, she was at least willing to put it aside.

"I blame your brothers entirely," Bodie said, hoping that wasn't straying too close to forbidden topics.

"Those two are always ready for a piss-up, but I don't imagine you're a choir boy when it comes to the booze either."

"I only use it for medicinal purposes," Bodie said with mock seriousness.

"You're an idjit," Mo said with a laugh that Bodie was happy to see. Then she turned her attention back to the cooker. "I'll have your breakfast ready in a minute."

"I don't know that I can handle breakfast at the moment. A cup of tea'll be fine."

"And miss my fine cooking." Mo finished fussing at the cooker and deposited a plate in front of Bodie. "Here you are: poached eggs on toast."

Any other day, Bodie would have bolted down what Mo had supplied and been asking for more. Today, however, the mere thought of taking a bite of the glistening, runny eggs gave his stomach a turn.

"Are you okay, Will? You're turning a bit green."

Bodie didn't have time to answer. He made a dash up the stairs for the toilet, barely making it in time to throw up the limited contents of his stomach. He stayed there, kneeling in front of the porcelain, until the heaves had stopped and he could at last rinse the taste of beer and bile out of his mouth. He made his way back to the kitchen, only to find that Mo had removed the eggs from his place and supplied him instead with two pieces of dry toast and a cup of tea.

"You did that on purpose." He looked at her with mournful eyes.

"I don't know what you're going on about."

"You'd be more convincing if you weren't grinning like the bloody Cheshire cat." 

"I'm sorry, Will," Mo said with a laugh. "I couldn't resist."

"'S all right. Probably did me good, getting the last of the booze out of my system." He took a tentative bite of toast, stuffing it all in his mouth when it sat well in his stomach.

"Doesn't seem to have done you any harm. Would you like more toast?"

"Please," Bodie said around a mouthful of crumbs.

Bodie ended up consuming five slices of toast and a rasher of bacon Mo fried him up out of pity. Neither of them suggested a repeat of the eggs, though.

"If it makes you feel any better, Noel and Liam suffer worse hangovers than any I've ever seen."

"Serves ‘em right," Bodie said after downing a sip of tea.

"You're a Bodie, all right. Vindictive, the lot of us."

"You're not."

"I'm the exception that proves the rule." Mo rose from the table and started dealing with the breakfast dishes. Finding his headache had eased substantially, Bodie rose to help her. Mo washed up while Bodie dried the dishes in companionable silence. Bodie tried not to think of similar mornings spent at Doyle's flat after a night of passion.

"So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?" Mo asked, breaking into his memory of Doyle chucking a handful of dish suds down his shirt collar. "If you're anything to judge by, I don't imagine Noel and the boys will be around ‘til much later in the afternoon."

"Thought I'd keep working on the barn." Bodie had made a good start of patching various holes that several years of neglect had seen open in the barn. "Maybe cut down some of the scrub in the pasture. And..."

"Yeah?" Mo said, encouraging him when he hesitated.

"I'd like to start running again. After two weeks of your cooking and not enough activity, I can feel myself getting a bit soft."

"Don't blame my cooking for your appetite, Will. If it wasn't my food, I'll wager you'd be filling yourself up on Jaffa Cakes and sausage rolls."

"Yeah, you've got me dead to rights there." Bodie laughed. "But I really _do_ need to start running again. I suppose it's not allowed, though." He hoped bringing up Noel's rules wouldn't upset Mo. "Not unless you care to run with me."

"I'm a middle-aged lady, Will. Running's not my style." She swatted him with a tea towel. And then she surprised him by bringing up the reason he'd come home legless last night, if only peripherally. "If you're a full volunteer, I don't suppose they'd mind if you go for a run by yourself. After all, you're not likely to get into any trouble all the way up here. Nothing here but cows, pigs, and a few stray chickens."

"There is that," Bodie said. "Maybe I'll ask Dec if he'd mind if I do a run in the mornings."

"You do that. I'm sure he'll say yes."

"Fingers crossed," Bodie said, hoping that Dec would be as amenable to his suggestion as Mo thought. And not just for the sake of his fitness, though that wouldn't hurt. Running would also give him an excuse to be away from the house by himself, and if he was by himself, well, there was a dead drop just a mile from Mo's property. It was more than past time for him to get reports back to Cowley. Not to mention it would give him more opportunity to check out the lay of the land, figure out where there was cover, and where he'd be a sitting duck if he ever had to run for more than exercise. It was time to get this bloody operation under way. Mo's company notwithstanding, he wanted to be finished with this assignment and this country as soon as he possibly could.

* * *

That afternoon Bodie asked for and was given permission to run in the mornings. And what was more, Dec removed most of the restrictions on his movement. Bodie could now travel where he liked, as long as he checked in with Dec or another member of the brigade to make sure he wouldn't run into any known Army patrols or checkpoints.

The following day, he put a large portion of Cowley's bankroll to good use, buying an old Norton motorcycle that a friend of Mo's had mouldering in his barn. It took him a few days to get it running again, and the work made him miss Doyle all the more. Doyle was the one who enjoyed getting his hands mucky with a bit of work on their bikes. If his was in need of a tune-up, Bodie always knew he could get Doyle to do it for him. Especially if a pint and a shag were on offer for afters.

But Doyle wasn't here, so Bodie put his head down and got to work on the bike. When he was done, it wouldn't have won any races, but it did well enough to get him around. And it would also give him a chance of escape if it he was rumbled. Better to make a quick dash on the bike up to the army base at Newtownhamilton than to do it on foot over uneven fields. His first sergeant had taught him that: always have at least two escape routes out of any situation. More if you can manage it. Bodie had lived by those words ever since.

Bodie approached the running like he did fixing the bike: he put his head down and got stuck into it.

He'd wake up with the dawn, which wasn't really that early this late in the year, and pull on his trainers and a tatty old track suit that Mo's missing husband had left hanging at the back of a wardrobe. He'd leave the house, his breath misting the cool morning air, and do ten miles around Mo's property and the neighbouring farms. Then he'd help Mo around the farm, grab a quick lunch, and ride the bike out to Dec's for the afternoon.

Doyle would have laughed himself sick.

Any time Doyle suggested they go for a run, Bodie would complain profusely. He grumbled about getting out of bed too early, he whinged if it was too hot or too cold, he made a game of trying to cut their runs short whenever possible.

It was all an act, of course.

You didn't get into the Regiment unless you could run up and down the side of a mountain with a four stone bergen on your back, turn around, and do it all over again. But getting up Doyle's nose had been one of Bodie's great pleasures before they started shagging, and it was even more fun after. He never got enough of pushing Doyle's buttons, making him squawk.

But with no Doyle to moan at, there was no pleasure in it. So he didn't. Instead, he just got stuck into the running, dodged through the bracken and around hedges, tried not to break his ankle in a rabbit's burrow.

He enjoyed the morning runs. Even his soldier's eye recognized how beautiful the sun on the fields was, especially on mornings when there was an autumn frost on the land. And it was the only time he didn't have to be on his guard, since even with Mo he had to watch his thoughts and his words. It was the only time he could let his mind wander, if only a little. More often than not, he'd spend his runs thinking about Doyle. He didn't dwell on the fact that they were apart, didn't torment himself by thinking about whether they'd ever be together again. He didn't waste time considering what would happen if he died with an IRA bullet in his head and Doyle hating him for following orders and not telling him about the mission.

Instead, he'd think about the good things: Doyle's filthy laugh after he'd told an especially rotten joke; the gleam in his eye when he wound Bodie up; the exact shade of green of his eyes when he was really angry, cursing Cowley and Bodie and God in his heaven. The way his breath caught in his throat just before he came.

Two days into the running, he left his first report at the nearest dead drop. The report was in his neatest hand and used the cipher Cowley had supplied. He stuck it in a culvert a mile down the road, three stones on an adjacent stile marking the drop as in use.

One day later, the stones and the report were still there.

A day after that, the report was getting damp and one of the stones had been knocked to the ground by an errant sheep, but the drop's keeper appeared to be neglecting it.

Two more days and Bodie pulled the report, sticking it inside his vest and burning it behind the barn before he even went in to take a shower.

He didn't worry right away. Maybe the bloke who was meant to be checking the drops had the flu. Maybe he was a lazy bastard. Maybe he'd forgotten this drop. So over the next week and a half he tried the other two drops—an old cow shed halfway to Dec's, and a crumbling cottage nearer Crossmaglen—with the same result. No one picked up the reports, and he saw no sign that any living being, apart from sheep, cows, and the odd fox, had even been near them.

After two weeks he stopped trying completely. Better to accept he was on his own than risk being caught by Dec or Noel or, God help him, Liam with a suspicious jumble of letters and numbers on a piece of paper in his jacket pocket.

Not that he was happy about it, but he'd been a soldier long enough to know that sometimes you had to accept that your plan was knackered and move on. If he found that there was a bomb set in London, he could always hop it to the Newtownhamilton garrison and let the Army lads deal with it. And in the meantime, he'd keep his head down, his eyes open, and take advantage of any opportunity that presented itself to get intel to Cowley.

* * *

Bodie had been in Ireland for nearly two months, and in Armagh for over half of that. He was beginning to feel that his life in London, with CI5 and Doyle and all, was nothing but a fantasy, and that this half-life in Ireland was the reality, one he was being drawn deeper into every day.

The previous day, Dec had called him aside and asked if he'd help run a checkpoint that he and Noel were planning. 

"Running a checkpoint is fun," Noel said. "We caught a RUC bastard last month, while you were waiting in Dundalk. The idjit didn't realize who we were until it was too late."

Bodie thought of his mate in the Paras who'd been gunned down at an IRA check-point and only just managed to keep the anger from his eyes. He quickly agreed to meet Dec and Noel at Mo's after his run.

It had been a brilliant morning for a run. The air was cool enough to keep him from sweating, but not cold enough to be uncomfortable. Then half way through his run the sun broke through the clouds, turning the frost-covered fields into a diamond-encrusted panorama stretching out before him. Doyle was the one prone to oohing and aahing over a pretty landscape, his art school training peeking out at odd moments, but just then Bodie knew what the golly was on about.

He was nearing Mo's and was at that point in a run where everything was effortless, legs pumping, breath easy in his chest, when he crested a small hill and found a British soldier, a lowly squaddy, swinging his leg over a stone wall at the edge of Mo's land.

"Jesus," the squaddy said, freezing on his perch. "Who the fuck are you?"

Before Bodie could say a word, he heard the sound of an engine approaching. He immediately recognized the coughing of Noel's ropey Cortina. Instinct kicked in and he charged the squaddy with a guttural yell, knocking him back over onto the other side of the wall and landing on him with a thump. Before the boy—because he really wasn't much more than a boy, not much older than Bodie had been when he'd joined the mercs—could recover his breath to protest, Bodie had his hand over his mouth.

"If you don't want to be shot to pieces, keep your mouth shut and your head down." The boy's eyes widened, but he didn't protest or fight, and Bodie risked taking his hand away. "You'll want to stay here until you hear that car leave again. And even then you should give yourself fifteen minutes before you scarper." He shoved a finger into the boy's chest. Hard. "Understand?" 

The boy nodded.

"Good." Bodie scrambled up and jumped the fence before the trespasser could say a word, his heart hammering all the way to Mo's.

Dec and Noel were talking in front of the house when he arrived, with Mo conspicuously absent. Given her opinion of the IRA, Bodie reckoned Mo was no fan of Dec Harris. He changed without showering and was manning the checkpoint in less than thirty minutes, hoping that Dec and Noel didn't notice any jumpiness on his part.

The checkpoint went off without a hitch; the only vehicles they stopped belonged to a few pig farmers on their way to the slaughterhouse and a housewife out to do her weekly shopping. The only wounds they received came from the sharp edge of the woman's tongue as she berated them for slowing her down. Much to Noel's disappointment, no stray members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary or Her Majesty's forces appeared to receive the bloody vengeance of the Irish Republic. Bodie tried not to think about what his cousin would have done if he'd stumbled across that lad on Mo's farm. At least that boy's death wouldn't be on his conscience.

When Dec dropped him at Mo's, he returned to that wall to make sure the boy had gone. The only trace that he'd been there at all was a disturbance in the bracken where they'd both landed. He walked back to Mo's, glad that he wasn't likely to see anymore of that particular squaddy.

* * *

The next day, the boy was back.

Bodie was out for his usual run, was cresting the same hill, and there the stupid boy was, sitting on that same damned wall. He was in uniform and there was a bottle-sized paper sac sitting at his side.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Bodie said, a snarl on his lips, the Liverpool accent of his schooldays marking his voice more than usual.

"I just came to say thank you," the boy said, his body language a youthful mix of bravado and uncertainty. He jumped off the wall and handed the paper sac to Bodie. "Bought this in the mess for you."

Bodie pushed away the offered bottle and leaned into the boy's face, fear for the boy fuelling a burning anger. "Wasn't nearly getting caught by the IRA once enough for you? Out to make sure someone really does put a bullet in your head?"

"I reckoned you were okay. After all, you're a Scouser. Not one of them."

"Liverpool Irish, you stupid bastard. Don't ever assume you know a person's loyalties. Not in this country." Bodie's outburst was rewarded by a flash of worry in the boy's eyes.

"But you saved me yesterday."

"That was yesterday."

"But..." the boy's voice faded as he backed away from Bodie and into the stone wall behind him. He looked like a small animal, trapped by a fierce hunting dog he'd taken as friendly.

His point made, Bodie felt his own anger dissolve. "Don't look like that. I'm not about to wring your neck, much as I should. But you shouldn't be out here."

The boy relaxed immediately, his shoulders dropping, his face erupting in a shy grin. "I knew you were all right." He once again proffered the bottle, pushing it into Bodie's hands. "Here you go. Have a drink on me."

"And who will I be drinking to?" Bodie asked, knowing even as he did so that putting a name to this boy could lead to nothing but grief in this bloody country.

"Private Robert Stapleton reporting for duty, sir." The boy snapped to attention and threw a smart salute. Then he relaxed into an insolent parody of parade rest. "But you can call me Robbie. Everyone does." Then he took a look at his watch and blanched. "Christ, I'm late. I'll be AWOL if I don't leg it." He took off at a run. "Bye."

"Bye, yourself," Bodie said to the retreating back.

He watched until the boy disappeared behind the rise of a hill in the north, trying not to dwell on how much he'd enjoyed talking to someone who had no idea who he was, who wasn't spying on him, who didn't expect anything of him. He opened the sac in his hand and found a bottle of Bushmill's best whiskey. Stashing Robbie's gift at the foot of the wall for later, he took a deep breath and resumed his run.

* * *

Two days later, the boy, Private Robert Stapleton, was sitting on the wall again as Bodie finished his run. This time he was dressed in civvies, kicking trainer-shod feet against the field stone at his heels, a thermos at his side.

"Do you have a death wish?" Bodie asked, less angry than astonished at the brass of the boy.

"Nah. Just thought you might like a cuppa after your run, what with the mornings getting colder." He fished a paper packet out of his jacket. "I even nicked some scones from Jen's mum."

"Jen?" Bodie asked, even though he knew he should be clipping the boy's ear and sending him on his way. His curiosity always had been his downfall.

"My bird. She lives over there." He pointed in the direction Bodie had first seen him come from.

"You stupid boy. You're never sleeping with a Catholic bird." Bodie caught his breath at the lad's naïveté, even if he had to give him credit for his cheek. "They'll kill you both if they catch you."

"Jen's a Prod." Robbie proffered the paper packet at him. "I'm not that crazy."

"You're crazy enough," Bodie said, even as he took a scone. No use in wasting good food.

"It's not _that_ dangerous. Not really. I mean, I know they tell you it is, but so far it's just been dead boring. I've been sneaking off base for two months to see Jen and no one's caught me yet."

"You only have to get caught the once."

"I'm too fast. And our barracks aren't far. Just a mile or two that way." He pointed north, towards Newtownhamilton. "And anyway, from here north the farms are mostly Protestant."

"Not this farm. And not our neighbours. You're taking a big risk."

"I can look after myself." Robbie looked at him. "What about you? What's an Irish Scouser doing in this neighbourhood?"

"This is my cousin's place. I'm staying with her for a while. Helping her out, like."

"What about the other day? Are you helping out the local Republicans too?"

"That would be telling." Bodie made his tone cold, and Robbie wisely dropped the subject.

"Do you run every day?"

"Most days. Unless it's pissing rain."

"Not fond of running myself. Or of rain. Always seems to rain when we're on patrol."

"Typical, that," Bodie said without thinking, regretting it when the boy perked up at his answer.

"You been in the Army?"

"Yeah," Bodie saw no point in lying. "For a bit."

"You serve over here?"

"Nah." Bodie saw no point in telling the whole truth, either. "My service was dead boring. Spent more time polishing my boots than anything."

"Our RSM is a big one for polishing boots."

"They all are."

"What's your name?" Robbie asked, his eyes narrowed with curiosity.

"Why?"

"I can't just call the man I'm having tea with the Irish Scouser."

"Who says you're having tea with me?"

"Who says I'm not?" Robbie gave him an infectious grin as he unscrewed his thermos, poured a cup, and passed it to Bodie.

"Used to getting your way, are you?"

"Yeah." Robbie swung his arms impatiently. "C'mon, what's it going to hurt, having a cuppa?"

It was a foolish idea, sharing a cup of tea with this boy. Because Bodie knew it wasn't just about one cup of tea. No, let this happen now and he knew Robbie would show up on this wall again. And that was bad. Not just because it might get them both killed, but because it might bollocks up his assignment. The assignment he'd already risked so much to carry out. 

But in spite of it all, Bodie began to relent, to consider Robbie's mad scheme as a balm to the astounding loneliness that had settled in his limbs, in his belly. "All right," Bodie said as he took the tea in the hand not holding a half-eaten scone. "But we shouldn't stay here, out in the open. I can see at least two other farmhouses from here, and that means they can see us." He pointed behind him, to the edge of Mo's property. "There's an old equipment shed over there. It'll keep us away from prying eyes."

"Fantastic," Robbie said, his grin growing even wider as he set off, leading the way to the shed.

"It's just this one time, mind," Bodie said, mounting one last skirmish.

"Of course." Robbie's expression told Bodie that the boy wasn't taking him seriously and the battle was nearing its end. "Now, what's your name?"

"Will," Bodie said, raising the flag of surrender and hoping they'd both live to regret the events of this morning.

"Just Will?"

"Just Will."

"Fair enough." Robbie opened the shed door and held open for Bodie.. "After you, Just Will."

Bodie could do nothing but follow.

* * *

Over two weeks after his meeting with Marty Martell, Doyle finally got word from Kev Ranson that he had information about Bodie. Kev had already given them the word on a large drug shipment, giving them enough to take out a few high level villains along with the usual dealers and mules, so Doyle was feeling charitable towards him. As charitable as he ever felt towards Kev, anyway.

Since this time they were on very unofficial business, they'd covered their tracks with Cowley, informing control they were chasing down a lead in Wapping, and then arranged to meet the irritating sod in an East End back alley.

They waited for fifteen minutes under a sky that was threatening to unleash buckets of icy rain before Kev appeared wearing his usual dodgy suit, a tatty topcoat over it, and a kipper tie that was at least five years out of fashion around his neck.

"Gentlemen," Kev said.

"You have something for us, Kev?" Doyle was in no mood for any pratting about.

"You really must learn the social niceties, Doyle," Kev said, the posh words sounding absurd in his East End accent.

"I'll give you social niceties, you stupid git," Doyle said, his lunge only just held back by Murphy.

"You want to keep him on a leash," Kev said to Murphy.

"And you want to get to the point," Murphy said calmly. "Or I'll let Doyle do what he likes to you."

"Christ," Kev said sourly. "Does CI5 surgically remove your sense of humour when you join up?"

"Let's assume it does, Kev." Doyle said. "Now what the fuck do you have for us?"

"Good quality information, this. One hundred quid, Doyle. Remember?"

"I remember." Doyle took the notes out of his jacket pocket and held it up between two fingers.

"Is it all there?" Kev said with a speculative look on his face.

"It's all there. If you've got the information," Doyle said.

"I've got it, all right," Kev said, as he reached for the notes.

"No way," Doyle said, pulling back his hand. "Information first, money after."

"I don't know why I bloody do business with you lot. No sense of trust, ‘ave you."

"That's right. So, what do you have?"

"Bodie's been seen in Ireland, all right. He started in the south, in Dundalk, but then he moved across the border, into Northern Ireland."

"Where in Northern Ireland?" Murphy asked, his voice sounding tense.

"South Armagh," Kev said with a smug grin.

"Fuck." It wasn't often that Doyle heard Murphy swear. To hear him say that word was so wrong that he looked over at him sharply. Murphy was frowning and biting his lower lip.

"Is South Armagh bad?" Doyle asked. Northern Ireland was a wash of misery to him. Cowley hadn't ever had them work on many IRA cases—which was odd, now that he thought about it—so he didn't know one bad county from the next.

"Armagh's the worst," Murphy said grimly.

"Kev?"

"Your new bully boy knows what he's talking about. South Armagh's bandit country. You don't want to go there unless you're looking for trouble or ready to make it."

"Trouble?" Doyle was feeling particularly stupid and he wanted everything laid out for him.

"The Troubles, if you know what I mean. The IRA are a very mean bunch ‘round there. There's a brigade based out of Crossmaglen. Responsible for a lot of shootings, a lot of bombings. You don't want to cross them."

"Why the fuck would Bodie go there?"

"Well, that's the thing." Kev looked at him with a jackal's grin that Doyle knew couldn't bode well. "I've heard what Bodie might be up to."

"Yeah?" Doyle urged him on.

"Yeah. Before I tell you, though, just remember I'm only the messenger. It's not my fault if you don't like what I've got to say."

"I'll remember, Kev. Now what is it?"

"Word is that the Crossmaglen lot are planning a big bomb. And not just in Belfast, either. This one's coming across the water, right to the middle of London." 

"Any idea of exactly where?"

"Not exactly, but word is they want to go big and official. Like the Houses of Parliament or New Scotland Yard."

"Guy Fawkes wannabes," Murph said. "Great."

"When?" Doyle said, avoiding the one question he had to ask but didn't quite want to know.

"Some time before Christmas. No one's entirely sure yet."

"So, the IRA's planning a big bomb in London before Christmas. Nothing they haven't tried before. So what?" Murphy spoke with the sure knowledge of someone who'd probably spent a bit too much time in Northern Ireland. Doyle was suddenly curious if he and Bodie had ever exchanged stories of walking patrols in Belfast, if Bodie had told Murphy the stories he'd never tell Doyle.

"Bodie's been seen in the company of the Crossmaglen brigade."

"Bodie has?" This wasn't making sense to Doyle. Bodie would never work with the IRA. That was one of the key certainties in his life.

"Yeah, Bodie. And that's not all."

"What else, Kev?" Doyle tried to calm his breathing, tried to stop his impulse to shake Kev until he told Doyle what he knew and that smug smile was wiped from his face.

Kev looked down calmly and brushed a bit of lint from his topcoat. "Word is he's training them up. Making them all into good little soldiers."

Rage at the thought of this toe-rag getting all smug about Bodie working for the IRA rose up inside of Doyle and he threw himself at Kev. "Don't," he said, pinning the stupid sod against the alley wall. "Don't you dare judge him, you bastard."

Before he could inflict any serious damage, an arm was wrapped around his own throat and Murph pulled him off Kev. 

"Leave off, Doyle," Murphy said. "Cowley'll do his nut if you kill a grass."

Doyle shook off Murphy's arm and paced up and down the alley. Kev rubbed at his throat, but still had the bad judgment to look smug.

"Thought that might get a reaction," Kev said.

"You got anything else to say?" Doyle said, hoping that was the end of Kev's revelations.

"There's one more thing you should know."

"And that is?" Murphy asked.

"Who else is in that IRA brigade."

"What the fuck difference would that make?" Doyle was trying to keep his temper under control, even though he wanted nothing more than to plow his fist into Kev's face.

"You see, there's a couple of brothers, live outside of Crossmaglen. Word is they're the worst of the lot in that area."

"Don't fuck us about, Kev. Tell us their names if it's so bloody important."

"Noel and Liam." Kev paused for effect.

"Their last names, Kev, or so help me..."

"Bodie." Kev said, a broad smile on his face, as Doyle felt all his assumptions about Bodie and himself and what they believed in come tumbling in around him.

"Bodie?" he said quietly, his emotions flash frozen as he struggled to think, to feel anything.

"Yeah. They're Bodie's cousins, from what I've heard."

Kev just stood there, and so did Murph, both of them looking at Doyle. Doyle leaned against a decaying brick wall behind him and concentrated on keeping his legs from going out from under him.

Murphy was the one who finally broke the silence, taking the bank notes from Doyle's hand and pressing them into Kev's before pushing him towards the end of the alley. "You've been paid, Ranson. Now bugger off like a good lad." Fortunately for everyone, Kev exercised what little good sense he had and did exactly as Murphy suggested.

Doyle stayed against the wall, needing the support as his emotions melted through and he was hit by waves of betrayal and anger and hopeless grief.

"Doyle?"

"Christ, Murphy. You know what's going on, don't you?"

"Yeah." Doyle looked over to find Murphy leaning against the wall, his usual calm expression gone, a look of grim resolve in its place.

"Bodie's undercover..."

"In Northern Ireland," Murphy finished his thought for him.

"I'm going to kill Cowley." Doyle's anger returned tenfold now that he had a target at which to aim it, and he began to consider the multitude of ways that he could send Cowley to his maker.

"If you kill Cowley, who's going to sign our expense chits?"

"Don't joke about it, Murph. Don't you dare joke," Doyle said, clenching his fist and restraining himself from punching either Murphy or the wall. He had the feeling he was going to need Murphy's good will in the coming weeks, so breaking his nose wasn't on. And a broken hand would only slow him down.

"Then don't you go making bloody stupid threats you have no intention of following through on."

"How do you know I don't really mean to kill the Cow?"

"You'd only feel guilty about it if you did," Murphy said, his damnable composure firmly in place. "And besides, killing the Cow isn't going to help Bodie. After all, if we're right-"

"Oh, we're right. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"If we're right," Murphy continued, ignoring the interruption, "then Cowley might be the only one who knows Bodie is undercover."

"Damn." 

"Yeah," Murphy said. "Damn indeed."

"So, what do we do, Murph?"

"We go to Cowley and tell him what we know. Everything we know. Even about Bodie."

"And then what?"

"And then you tell him you want to backup Bodie in Ireland." Murphy raised his eyebrows. "You do want that, don't you?"

"More than anything. And if he doesn't let me?"

"Then you insist. With my help." Murphy smiled, and Doyle saw in that smile the absolute ruthlessness that Murphy kept hidden most of the time.

"Christ, and they all say Bodie and I are the ones to watch out for."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Murph said.

"I don't suppose you do," Doyle said. "But I'm bloody glad you're on my side."

* * *

On the way back to headquarters the threatened storm broke, lashing the windscreen with wind and rain that made it nearly impossible to see the car in front of them. Clutching the steering wheel, Doyle felt his anger grow with the tempest. The more he thought about it—Cowley keeping him in the dark as he sent Bodie to do the impossible—the more pain he wanted to inflict on Cowley.

Sod's law being what it was, all parking near the building was taken, and the rain was chucking it down worse than ever so they were both drenched by the time they crossed the threshold of CI5. As they entered Cowley's office, with Murphy fending off the ever-protective Betty while he burst in on the Cow, Doyle was positively murderous.

"You do know you're a bloody bastard, don't you?" Doyle said, emotion stripping him of any diplomacy he had. And he hadn't much at the best of times.

"I tried to stop them. But..." Doyle only dimly registered Betty's presence and Murphy's behind her.

"It's all right, Betty. You can leave them to me."

Betty eyed the two agents sceptically, as if she didn't quite trust them, but nodded anyway.

"I'll be outside if you need me," she said.

"Thank you, Betty. I'm sure I won't."

She nodded and closed the door behind her.

"Now, would you like to repeat that, 4.5?" Cowley looked at him like a school-master about to rebuke an unruly pupil, and that just got up Doyle's nose further.

"We know what Bodie's up to, you bloody bastard," Doyle said, not giving a toss about the consequences of insulting his superior.

"Bodie is an accused traitor and is currently a fugitive from justice," Cowley said with a chilly calm.

"He bloody well isn't and you bloody well know it." Doyle moved forward and leaned on his desk with barely restrained aggression. "He's working undercover in Northern Ireland." He pointed a finger at Cowley's chest. "On your orders." Doyle's eyes flashed accusingly with his words.

Cowley looked at the two of them and Doyle could see the calculations being made, the advantage of revealing secure information weighed against the danger to the operation. One blink of those cold blue eyes and he knew a decision had been made. He held his breath, waiting for Cowley's next words, knowing they were the most important he'd hear from the Old Man since he'd teamed him up with an irritating half-Irish son of a bitch over eight years ago.

"Murphy, I'll need you to wait outside." Murphy stirred beside him. "No arguments, man, or I'll have you both thrown into holding cells in the basement until Judgment Day."

Murphy looked over at Doyle, an unspoken question in his eyes.

"'S all right, Murph," Doyle said, willing to forego Murphy's support if it meant finally hearing the truth from Cowley. Murphy paused a few seconds, then nodded and headed for the door. Doyle trained his eyes back on Cowley and didn't blink until he heard the door shut on Murphy's exit.

"Sit down, Doyle." Cowley's voice was like the shush of a steel blade drawn out of a scabbard, and twice as sharp. Doyle followed the order. There'd be time enough for defiance later.

"Bodie's undercover in Northern Ireland," Doyle said, putting steel of his own into his voice. "I want to go over as his backup."

"No," Cowley said in a way that brooked no opposition.

"Well, at least you're not denying he's working over there."

"What would be the point? I don't think you'll believe any denials from me. But you're not setting foot on Irish soil."

"I'm going, with your permission or without it. Unless you really fancy using that holding cell in the basement."

"If you're found further west than Oxford, I'll have you thrown in prison so fast your head will spin." Cowley raised his voice. "And if you make it to Ireland, I'll see to it that you're older than I am before you see the light of day."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?" Cowley leaned forward and turned on intercom. "Betty, would you have Lucas and McCabe come in here?"

"Yes, sir," Betty said, the concern coming through in her voice even in those two words.

Doyle stared across the desk at Cowley, his anger blazing hotter and hotter still. But in spite of the anger, he didn't stop thinking. He knew Cowley wasn't bluffing, just as he knew he could do Bodie more good at liberty than he could locked up in one of Cowley's mousetraps. 

Doyle broke off his stare and turned away. "You're a hard old bastard."

"Yes, I am." Cowley's tone was matter-of-fact. "You'd do well to remember that, laddie."

"I will."

"Good. Now are you willing to listen to what I have to say?"

"Yeah." Doyle nodded reluctantly.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir." Doyle wanted nothing better than to tell Cowley what he could do with his "sir," but he restrained himself.

"Good." Cowley called Betty again. "I won't need Lucas and McCabe after all. And hold all my calls."

"I'll tell them, sir." 

"Are you ready to listen to what I have to say?"

Doyle was on the verge of arguing further, but for Bodie's sake he quelled his rebellion and sat back in his chair.

"What I'm about to tell you is highly classified. Besides the Minister, only two members of MI5, myself and 3.7 know this information. You may tell 6.2 enough to satisfy him, but no more. I don't have to tell you what it might cost Bodie if the wrong information reaches Ireland."

"No, sir."

"As you've guessed, Bodie is undercover in South Armagh. MI5 and the Home Office had received information that the IRA was on the verge of launching another bombing campaign on English soil, probably in London. MI5 came up with a plan to infiltrate the South Armagh brigade of the IRA, the group it was thought most likely to be involved in the bombing campaign," Cowley continued. "Bodie's name came up as the man mostly likely to carry out this assignment successfully."

"Because he was ex-SAS? Because he's CI5? Or because he has two cousins in the South Armagh IRA?"

Cowley's eyebrows rose slightly, but he hid any further sign of surprise. "All of the above, though it was the cousins that sold it. The only way to enter that branch of the IRA is through family connection."

"Bodie doesn't talk about his family much, but he has let it slip how much he hates the Irish lot. And how much they hate him. You sent him to a place where they know he's CI5." Doyle felt his face twist in rage. "He'll be a lamb to the slaughter."

"I sent him," Cowley said, his voice the essence of reasonableness, "to a place where they'd know he was a disgraced CI5 agent on the run. And I gave them a reason to take him in."

"You gambled with Bodie's life that they'd believe the cover."

"Gambled and won."

"And you expect me to trust you with Bodie's life?" He'd thought he'd understood the scope of Cowley's arrogance before, but he was realizing how little he'd actually known of it.

"I do, Doyle."

"No." Doyle looked down and shook his head slowly. "I won't do it. I can't trust you to keep him safe. I'm going to Ireland."

"Absolutely not." Cowley's voice cut like a finely honed blade.

"Like hell I'm not."

"You'll put his life in danger if you do."

"That's rich, coming from you." Doyle gave a harsh bark of a laugh. "You've already put his life in danger. I can protect him."

"You can't, Doyle." Cowley shook his head sadly. "Even if he's family, they won't have taken Bodie on faith. They'll have investigated every aspect of his life as thoroughly as the security services vet our agents. If they see Bodie's former partner in CI5 show up on the high street of Crossmaglen, you'll be dead by sunset the first day. And then they're going to start wondering if Bodie's working for them, or if he's a plant. If they start thinking he's a traitor to their cause, he may not be dead before sunset, but he'll certainly wish he was."

"They won't suss me out. I'm good. Trained by the best, remember?" Doyle didn't bother keeping the sarcasm from his voice.

Cowley didn't respond to that, just glared at him and then leaned down, unlocked a drawer of his desk, and drew out a red-coloured file. "Bodie wasn't the first man sent in to root out that brigade. Two MI5 agents went in before him. Say what you like about MI5, they were well trained and had solid covers." Cowley slid the file across the desk to Doyle. "Neither of them was over there more than a week, and this is what happened to them."

Doyle opened the file, his anger at Cowley's betrayal overcoming any trepidation he might have felt. But the first photograph stopped him cold.

Working for CI5, and before that the Met, Doyle had seen more than his fair share of death. He'd seen broken bodies and the squalid places where they'd died; he'd smelled dried blood and rotten flesh. He'd become hardened to it. But these stark black and white photographs stripped away all his defences and left him raw and bloodied. The first man had been beaten ‘til he couldn't have had a bone unbroken. The second had been butchered as efficiently as a slaughtered pig. Looking at what was left of their corpses, Doyle couldn't help imposing Bodie's face onto the images. Couldn't help but imagine what Bodie would suffer if his deception was discovered.

Without warning, Doyle felt his gorge rise and knew he could sit in this office no longer. He threw the file aside and ran, not noticing or caring as photographs and papers skittered onto the floor. He sprinted out the door, past Betty, past Murphy, down the hall to the men's toilet. He straight-armed the door of the first stall open and then was on his knees in front of porcelain, the smell of piss and shit and cleanser and his own vomit assaulting his senses as he retched and heaved and cried.

* * *

Cowley had known from the start that this day must come. After all, public perception to the contrary, he hired his people for their intelligence, as well as their ability to inflict mayhem. And Doyle and Murphy were two of the sharpest of a sharp lot. Even given the official story about Bodie's disappearance, even kept too busy, too tired to think properly, they were always going to discover the truth. So when the two of them burst into his office looking like nothing so much as drowned rats, Doyle crackling with a barely contained anger and searching for a target to vent that anger on, it was only what Cowley had expected.

As he'd talked to Doyle, tried to convince him to stand down from his foolish plan to follow Bodie, he noticed other things he _hadn't_ expected. Like the leanness of Doyle, all excess flesh burned from his body by too long hours and too much stress. Like the gaunt cast to his face as he struggled to find a way to help his partner.

And then there was Doyle's reaction when he looked at the file on the two dead MI5 agents. He'd expected an explosion when Doyle saw those pictures, an angry outburst, a screaming match. He hadn't expect Doyle to bolt from the room as if he were pursued by demons Cowley could only guess at, and he hadn't a clue how to respond.

He spent a minute picking up the contents of the file Doyle had scattered across the floor in his scramble to leave, hoping that it would give 4.5 time to recover and himself time to decide how to react. Then he walked deliberately out of his office, trusting that instinct and experience would carry him through the next few minutes.

He shook his head in response to Betty's silently voiced question and stopped in the hall, not knowing which way Doyle had gone. Then he noticed Murphy hovering outside of the men's toilet like a hound uncertain whether to follow his master into the Inferno.

"Is he in there?" Cowley asked Murphy, neither of them needing to ask who the "he" was.

"Yes, sir. But..."

"Go home, 6.2." Cowley cut off anything Murphy might have said.

"But, sir..."

"Go. Home." Cowley allowed a small measure of sympathy to show in his eyes. "Change out of those wet clothes. I'll look after him, Murphy. But I want you to leave. Now."

Without further complaint, but with a clear reluctance, Murphy left. Outside the toilet, the sounds of Doyle's obvious distress were audible through wood and wall. Cowley was never so grateful that for once the halls of CI5 were empty.

Taking a deep breath, Cowley pushed open the door and walked in, locking the door behind him. At first he could see no sign of Doyle, could only hear him, but then he noticed the door of the first stall was slightly open. He took three measured steps and eased the door open with one finger, only to find Doyle hunched over the toilet bowl, his body shuddering as if it would tear itself apart.

George Cowley knew that there were those in CI5 of the opinion that he had cold metal where his heart should have been, that he had a callous disregard for human life in general and CI5 agents in particular. Those individuals would have been surprised by the compassion Cowley showed Doyle. He patted his back—awkwardly, it was true, as if he was unused to touching another human being for anything except a business-like handshake—until the vomiting stopped, helped him to his feet, and used paper towels and water to make him vaguely presentable though he still resembled a rodent who'd been caught in a deluge. And he did it all without a word.

When Doyle was finally fit to be seen, though only just, standing in front of the mirror with red-rimmed eyes, looking like a small child could have knocked him off his pins, Cowley finally risked talking.

"I didn't mean to do that to you, laddie," he said, hoping that Doyle understood that he hadn't meant to be deliberately cruel, hadn't meant to wound. "I only meant to make you understand what's at stake."

"Oh, I understand," Doyle said, his mouth a grim line that matched the uncharacteristic grey of his skin. "I understand too bloody well. You've sent Bodie where I can't help him and now I've got to stay put and pretend I know fuck all about it. Have I got that right? Sir?" The way Doyle said that last word, it wasn't at all a mark of respect. Cowley didn't flinch from the tone, but only returned Doyle's glare.

"And can you do that? Pretend you know nothing? Reveal nothing that would deliver Bodie into his enemy's hands?"

"I can do it." Doyle straightened his shoulders and gave a defiant sniff. "Good at undercover, aren't I? Especially when it's important. And this is bloody important." Doyle held Cowley's gaze, as if daring a contradiction.

"You're the best, and you know it," Cowley said, matching hostility with strength.

Without further word, Doyle made to move past him. Unwilling to leave things as they were, Cowley caught Doyle's elbow. "I'll tell you what I know when I can, lad."

Doyle stopped and looked straight at him, his eyes as cold and dead as Cowley had ever seen them. "You'll tell me if they kill him?"

Cowley released his grip on Doyle's elbow as if he'd been physically struck, but then he managed to give a curt nod. Doyle nodded once in response, then walked to the door.

"4.5," Cowley said sharply as Doyle reached the door. "You're due in at 8 tomorrow. See you're on time."

A brief pause, and then Doyle was out the door, leaving George Cowley motionless in front of the sinks, wishing he'd never heard of the IRA or Armagh or Declan Harris. Wishing that MI5 had never talked him into putting two of his best men through such a trial, whatever the greater good. Wishing he didn't know the things he hadn't told Doyle. Like the fact that an RUC officer had been killed in Armagh not a week after Bodie had disappeared. Like the fact that it was that RUC officer, a man whose loyalty was beyond reproach, who was meant to be in charge of Bodie's dead drops. Like the fact that there was now no way to make contact with Bodie.

Well, he couldn't do anything for Bodie now, except hope that his ingenuity at keeping alive and getting the job done held. But he could make certain that his partner didn't do anything foolish. Cowley strode back to his office, called the Communications room, and got them to contact 6.2, thankful that of all his agents, Alec Murphy could be counted on to have a cool head.

* * *

Murphy shifted slightly, musing on the glamorous life of a CI5 agent and hoping his arse didn't fall asleep from sitting on these stairs. He was very glad he'd taken the few minutes needed to dash over to his own flat and change out of his sodden clothes. Bloody Cowley, ordering him home, and then calling him on his R/T not ten minutes later to go over to Doyle's flat and play nursemaid. And giving no indication of what sort of shape he might find Doyle in when he got there. The fact that he'd not found Doyle there at all was only the icing on an extremely distasteful cake.

After an hour of waiting outside Doyle's flat, he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to stave off the curiosity of the older, wellie-clad, umbrella-carrying ladies who seemed to be Doyle's only neighbours. He'd already fended off two queries about how that nice Mr. Doyle was doing, three questions about what had happened to Doyle's friend, Mr. Bodie—they all thought he'd seemed such a charming lad, which in other circumstances Murphy would have found riotously funny—and four requests for assistance with changing various light bulbs and fuses. Cowley's information network had nothing on the OAPs in Doyle's block of flats.

He was just about to give up and give Doyle's local a try when he heard the front door open three floors down and the tread of feet on the stairs. He braced himself, in case it was yet another old biddy, returning late from her weekly shopping. But when the owner of the feet turned the corner, it wasn't a member of the grey-haired set but Doyle himself who came into Murphy's view.

He was rough. Rougher even than when Bodie had first disappeared. His face was ravaged, red and blotchy, his clothes were dripping water onto the floor, and his hair was bedraggled and plastered to his scalp, more knotted than curled.

Doyle looked at Murphy with an almost complete lack of curiosity that was terrifying.

"I suppose the Cow sent you to check up on me," Doyle said, one hand going into his pocket and automatically pulling out his keys. Murphy nodded. "Well, come in, then." Doyle shoved open his door and entered the flat, leaving Murphy to follow on his own.

Murphy entered the front hall and carefully set the locks. The state Ray was in, he wouldn't put it past him to completely forget all security procedures. Be just his luck for Doyle to get shot again. If that happened, Bodie would have his bollocks for breakfast when he got back. If he got back. No, he thought, shaking his head firmly, definitely when.

He followed the sound of clattering to the kitchen at the back of the flat where he found Doyle clashing about in an attempt to make a pot of tea.

"Give that over, Doyle." Murphy took charge of the kettle and teapot and pushed him out of the kitchen. "Go get out of those clothes before you catch pneumonia, why don't you." It frightened him no end that Ray didn't give a word of argument or complaint, just trudged down the hall to his bedroom. A Doyle lacking his usual stroppy spark was barely Doyle at all.

Murphy got the kettle on, found Doyle's stash of tea, and was rummaging through the cupboards in search of biscuits when he heard a rustling behind him. Doyle entered the room wearing a dry jumper and jeans, his bare feet making him look more vulnerable than Murphy had ever seen him.

With nothing left to do but wait for the kettle to boil, Murphy leaned against the countertop and watched as Doyle crumpled into a straight-back chair. He gave Doyle his best stare, the one he used in interrogations, the one that looked mild only when the recipient didn't know who he was dealing with. But Doyle knew. And Doyle finally looked up.

"So?" Murphy said, raising one eyebrow.

"So what, Murph?" Doyle's tone was vicious, which heartened Murphy slightly. Vicious he expected from Doyle; vicious he could deal with. Vicious was better than the defeat that had wrapped Doyle like a shroud since he'd appeared in the stairwell.

"What'd Cowley have to say?" Murph shifted his weight and folded his arms calmly across his chest. "Is Bodie undercover?"

"He's beyond undercover. He's so far underground he'll be hitting Australia any day."

"And are you going to join him in Australia?"

Doyle shook his head and looked down, and for an instant it almost looked as though his face was going to collapse in on itself. For that same instant, Murphy wished that Cowley hadn't assigned him to keep an eye out for Doyle, because he didn't think he could deal with Doyle having a breakdown. Not right now. Probably not ever.

Fortunately, for everyone concerned, Doyle brought his emotions under something resembling control. Murphy didn't kid himself that Doyle was anywhere near fine, but at least he wasn't about to throw a wobbly.

"It is the opinion of George bloody Cowley that it would not be advisable for me to go to Ireland." Doyle's voice assumed feigned nonchalance that his face couldn't match. "On account of the likelihood of me ending up as dead as a doornail as soon as I landed and Bodie ending up even deader shortly thereafter." Doyle snorted. "What the fuck does that mean, anyway? Dead as a doornail. No fucking sense in it."

"Doyle..." Murphy started to speak, not knowing entirely what to say. To follow Doyle's lead and focus on his linguistic digression, or to talk about what really mattered. Fortunately, he was spared having to make that choice when Doyle spoke again.

"Cowley's ordered me to stay in London and keep me mouth shut about Bodie. To not let on I know where he is." Doyle dropped his head and grabbed a handful of unruly curls in an angry fist. "And if he doesn't think I can manage it, he's threatened me with prison."

"There are worse things than prison," Murphy said mildly.

"Glad you think so, ‘cause you're for the Scrubs too, if you say anything." Doyle looked up and fixed Murph with a piercing glare. "He made that clear. No one else is to know about any of this. I can't even tell you the details of what he showed me, not that you'd want to know. And you can't tell anyone. Not even Ruth or Susan."

"Wild horses couldn't drag it out of me."

"There's another fucking stupid phrase. Why would wild horses want to drag anything out of anyone?"

"I've no idea." Murphy had a brief moment of hope that Doyle was going to stop talking about Bodie. A hope that was dashed completely by his next words.

"Fuckin' hell, Murph. The IRA. The bastard sent him undercover with the fucking IRA."

"I assume he had a good reason." Murphy didn't ask what the reason was. If he didn't know anything, there was nothing he could give away. "And that Bodie agreed with it. You can't get Bodie to do something he doesn't agree with."

"Not unless you're his commanding officer. Bloody Army types, you all fall in line as soon as there's someone there to take a salute."

"Don't look at me."

"Why not? You're as bad as Bodie. Do anything Cowley says, don't you?"

"Well... only because he's usually right."

"Bastard." That Doyle didn't argue the point told Murphy the IRA was planning something sufficiently dire. He didn't waste breath on stupid platitudes, on insisting Bodie would be okay when they both knew damn fine and well that there was every chance he wouldn't. Instead, he rummaged through Doyle's cupboards until he found a bottle of entirely average scotch, poured them both generous tumblers full, and proceeded to get them both completely arseholed for the evening.

In the end, the alcohol didn't solve anything. Doyle was as much a wreck when Murphy poured him into his bed as he'd been when he arrived at the flat. But such short-term oblivion was the only relief Murphy could offer Doyle, and he was glad enough to do it.

In the long term, Murphy hoped Bodie managed to pull off whatever bloody awful assignment the Cow had thrown at him. Because if he didn't, if he ended up dead, there wouldn't be enough alcohol in all of England to drown Ray Doyle's pain.

* * *

For the next two weeks, Robbie's morning visits became a regular part of Bodie's routine. Every few days, Bodie would top that rise at the end of his run and Robbie would be there, sitting at the foot of that wall. Some days he'd have brought a thermos of tea. Other days he'd have a sack of bacon sarnies stolen from the Newtownhamilton mess. Once he'd nicked a few more of Jen's mum's scones. They'd spend half an hour in the equipment shed, eating and talking and teasing each other. Robbie's visits made him look forward to his morning runs, in spite of the increasing chill in the morning that made him all too aware that winter was on its way.

He shouldn't have allowed it. It wasn't smart, befriending a British soldier when he was undercover with the IRA. Even with the rules he'd set Robbie—keep out of view of the neighbours, don't wait any longer than ten minutes, never approach Bodie at any other time—he was mad to let the visits continue. 

Mad, but almost happy. Happier, anyway, than any time since Cowley had called him into his office and set all this insanity in motion. And surely a little happiness was worth a bit of risk?

Robbie wasn't Doyle. Bodie didn't fancy him for a start. Not that he would have looked elsewhere to get his leg over. Not now. Not with Doyle waiting, so he hoped, in London. No, it wasn't sexual. And Robbie couldn't finish Bodie's sentences for him, couldn't take the mickey nearly as well, couldn't predict the twists of Bodie's thoughts and words. But he was a good mate, a good friend, the younger brother Bodie had never had. And talking to him was the one time in the day when he didn't have to worry that blowing his cover story might earn him an unquiet death.

After his run, after Robbie's visit, he'd spend the remainder of the morning doing odd jobs around Mo's place. Afternoons would be spent at Dec's farm, sometimes doing small arms practice, sometimes going over bomb designs, sometimes just listening to stories of the good old days in Ireland and the atrocities the English and their Ulster lackeys had wrought on the country and her people. Some evenings he'd go to the pub with the lads for a pint or two, others he'd spend at home on the sofa, watching the telly with Mo or reading poetry or a dog-eared paperback pinched from Mo's shelf.

The whole time he was keeping alert, listening for information that could be passed on to Cowley, watching for signs that Dec and his merry band were planning a big bombing campaign. He befriended Regan, shared war stories with Clancy, kept on Conleth's good side, and stayed out of his cousins' way. And he hoped when the moment came it would all be enough.

Bodie knew what to expect; he'd not yet been asked to do anything illegal, and apart from the ache in his chest where Doyle's absence was, he was almost beginning to feel like he was merely on an extended Irish holiday.

And then on one particularly fine, crisp morning, Robbie brought all that feeling of almost content down around his ears.

They were in the shed, drinking tea and sharing the last sarnie in Robbie's sack as a bitter October wind whipped around outside, when Robbie spoke.

"I know who you are."

"'Course you do," Bodie said around a mouthful of bacon. "I'm the Irish Scouser."

"No. You're William Bodie. CI5."

Bodie's heart began to pound in his chest, but he kept his voice calm and low and turned his best cold bastard look on the boy. "What are you talking about?"

"I thought you looked familiar that first day, but I couldn't place you. But then yesterday I saw a notice posted in the briefing room about a rogue CI5 agent. William Andrew Philip Bodie. The picture was crap, but it was you all right."

Bodie took a deep breath and weighed his options. He wondered if he had it in him to kill this boy to keep his secret, wondered how much of a fight Robbie would put up. He prayed to the harsh God of his childhood that it wouldn't come to that. 

"Say I am this Bodie. What are you going to do about it?"

"That would depend. Because I don't think the bloke I've been sharing tea with is what they've been saying. I don't think he's a traitor."

"And if he isn't a traitor, why's his picture on a notice in your briefing room?"

"I think he's undercover." Robbie looked smug, the expression of a teenager who's just answered the most difficult question in his A level maths class, against the expectation of his teacher. "I think _you're_ undercover."

Bad enough if the boy turned him in because he believed Bodie's cover story, but to have sussed out the truth behind the cover story? Cowley was going to have his bollocks. One thing he knew, he couldn't kill this boy. He liked him too much. And it was too unfair, too unjust for him to die because he was smart and observant. He might make CI5 himself someday, if he survived his tour here and gained some experience.

"And if I am undercover?" Bodie decided to admit nothing and see how this played out.

"Then I can help." Robbie gave him a wide smile. "I can deliver messages back to your superior. To George Cowley."

"And how do you know who my superior is?"

"I know a lot of things. Keep my ears and eyes open, don't I?"

"Too much by the sound of things."

"C'mon, Will. I can be a help. You know I can, or you would've turned me down already."

"Shut up a minute, would you?" Bodie pinched the bridge of his nose and thought. Just by being a British soldier in South Armagh this boy was already up to his eyeballs in the Troubles. Bodie very much did not want to involve him further, have him end up completely over his head.

And yet.

And yet, he was offering Bodie exactly what he needed: a way of getting information back to Cowley in the wake of the dead drops' failure.

"Fuckin' hell," Bodie muttered under his breath.

"Does that mean...?"

"That means I'm going to take you up on your insane offer."

"Thanks."

"You shouldn't thank me. What you should do is turn the other way. Go back to your barracks and pretend you never met me. Because all I'm going to do is put you in more danger than you're already in."

"I told you before it's not–"

"It _is_ bloody dangerous here." In frustration, Bodie grabbed the front of the boy's jacket and shook him. "Do you remember how we met? Wasn't it enough that you nearly got shot then? Or do you need more proof that it's dangerous? How about a pipe bomb blowing up under the feet of your patrol? Or an IRA sniper picking off the man standing beside you? Or a boy throwing a Molotov cocktail into the lorry you're travelling in? Would any of that convince you how dangerous it is here?"

"I can look after myself," Robbie said, shaking loose Bodie's grip. "I've been trained." Robbie shot him a look of aggrieved dignity.

Bodie was about to launch into further argument when he suddenly stopped. Robbie was, he realized, a year or two older than he'd been when he'd gone into his first battle in Africa. He'd been young, and young enough not to realize how young he was. He'd resented anyone who told him he didn't realize how dangerous it was, or pointed out how little he knew. He'd done outrageous things, stupid things to prove he knew what he was doing. He knew Robbie was cut from a similar cloth. And he knew that it was better to know what Robbie was doing, to give him some sort of guidance, than to let him do God knew what on his own.

"All right," Bodie said, releasing a great breath. "We'll give your plan a try."

"Really?" Robbie seemed surprised, as if he'd expected much more fight from Bodie.

"Really."

"Fantastic." Robbie rubbed his hands together and was very nearly bouncing. "So, what do you want me to do?"

"For the moment, nothing. Go back to your barracks and don't say a word to anyone. Not your C.O., not your sergeant, not your best mate. You haven't told anyone about me, have you?"

"'Course not." Robbie looked insulted. "And then?"

"Tomorrow, I'll let you know."

"Thanks, Will."

"You can thank me after we're both out of this country. Now, on your bike. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you," Robbie called out, and then he was off, running towards Newtownhamilton.

Bodie watched him receding into the distance and hoped he wasn't making a mistake. And if it was a mistake, he hoped it was one they'd both live to regret.

* * *

The next morning, there was Robbie, sitting on the cold ground, shying pebbles across the field as he waited and looking even younger than he had that first day. Bodie had a moment's doubt, a moment when he nearly told this boy to fuck off back to his barracks and not come back, to keep his head down and not give another thought to William Bodie, CI5, or George Cowley. 

But then his sense of duty began to whisper in his ear and he knew he couldn't give up the chance that Robbie had offered him.

Robbie smiled and jumped to his feet when he saw Bodie.

"So, Old Man, what's the story?"

"Let's get to the shed," Bodie said, then led the way. He didn't talk again until they were in the small outbuilding with the door shut behind them. "I'm going to take you up on your offer."

"Great." The squaddy beamed at him.

"But..."

"There's always a ‘but,' isn't there?"

"Yes there is, you daft git. Especially when you're doing something this dangerous."

"It's not dangerous."

"It is!" Bodie was surprised at the volume of his own voice. He took a deep breath to calm himself down before speaking again. "The ‘but' is that you follow my directions, and you follow them exactly. If there are any problems, anything that doesn't seem right, you abort and you never come back here again. Sound fair?"

"Yeah. I suppose," Robbie allowed.

"Good, now listen closely."

Bodie launched into a recitation of what Robbie had to do. He gave him Cowley's private number and told him only to call from a secure line within the base, and even then only when there was no one within earshot. He gave Robbie a verbal report to deliver to Cowley, a description of Dec's happy band and what he'd learned so far, and made Robbie parrot it back to him three times. Then he sent him on his way, with a warning not to come back to the farm for three days. Then Bodie watched Robbie disappear over a hill and returned to Mo's.

 

Bodie spent the next two days following his usual routine, but in a state of constant anticipation. If Robbie had somehow fucked up—used a line bugged by the IRA or made the call where it could be heard by someone else—Bodie knew that Dec or Noel or, most likely, Liam would roust him out of bed and gun him down like the traitor he was. But nothing out of the ordinary happened. He ran; he tuned his bike. He finished patching the holes in Mo's barn and started repairing her roof slates. At Dec's, he began training the lads in ambush techniques. He frequently had cause to hope that Cowley did manage to take the whole brigade down, because with the training he was giving them, they were going to be more lethal than ever.

On the third morning, he topped the rise to see Robbie sitting in his usual place at the foot of the wall, a grin on his face. A grin that didn't fade even as they made their way to the shed.

"Well?" Bodie asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well, nothing. It went off brilliantly."

"How brilliantly?" 

"I talked to your Mr. Cowley directly, told him exactly what you told me to. And I answered his questions?"

"Questions?"

"Yeah. How're you doing? What do you look like? Stuff like that."

"And how am I doing?" Bodie crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

"I told him you're doing well, that you didn't seem to have any problems. And that you've been made a full volunteer, just like you told me."

"Did he say anything about you delivering my message?"

"Just that I should be careful and follow your instructions."

"Bloody well right, you should. Anything else?"

"Nah, that's all." Robbie just sat there, beaming at him. "I did good, didn't I?"

"Maybe," Bodie reluctantly agreed.

"Maybe, nothing. I was brilliant." Robbie gave Bodie a punch on the arm that quickly turned into a laughing scuffle between the two of them.

"Face it, Old Man. I'm good, really good. Better than you are."

"I'm admitting nothing, you young bastard," Bodie said, collapsing in a breathless heap on the ground.

"You're not admitting anything because you know I'm better than you are." Robbie collapsed beside him.

"No comment."

"No bloody comment. You sound like a bloody civil servant."

That gave Bodie a twinge. He remembered too many times that he and Doyle had fallen back on telling birds they were nothing but civil servants, hiding their predators' hides under lambskins. Robbie was a sharp lad and he noticed the change in Bodie's bearing.

"I say something wrong?"

"Nah. Not really." Bodie tried to make light of his feelings. "Just my partner and I used to tell people we were civil servants. For a lark."

"Does your partner know? What you're doing?"

Bodie shook his head. "He's been told I'm a traitor, same as everyone else."

"That's not right." Robbie's indignation was immediate and clear. "They should have told him."

"It's better for the op if he doesn't know. If anyone is watching him, they need to be convinced he thinks I'm a villain."

"It's still not right." Robbie sat beside him quietly for several minutes. And when he spoke again, he gave Bodie a terrible choice. "Do you want me to tell him?"

"What?" Bodie said, sitting up straight and hoping he'd heard Robbie wrong.

"Do you want me to tell your partner that you're not really a traitor? I could call him, like I called your Mr. Cowley."

And there it was: the worst temptation Bodie could imagine. Robbie giving him a way to tell Doyle what was really going on, a way to make sure that Doyle didn't hate him. But even as he felt a brief hope that he could use this boy to straighten everything out with Doyle, a flood of "what ifs" tumbled through his mind. What if Robbie let slip his location? What if Doyle figured out where he was? What if Doyle showed his face in Ireland? What if Dec and Noel and Liam got hold of him?

What if Bodie couldn't save him?

No, better that Doyle think him a traitor than to risk his falling into the ungentle hands of his cousins and the IRA. He could better live with the thought of his own death than Doyle's.

"Thanks, but no. It's better he doesn't know. Not yet."

"Okay, but if you change your mind..."

"You'll be the first one I talk to." Bodie leaned over and ruffled Robbie's regulation Army haircut, missing Doyle's tangle of curls as he did so.

"Any time, Old Man."

"Less of the old, sonny." Bodie couldn't help letting a trace of a Scottish brogue creep into his voice.

"Can't help it if you're positively geriatric, can I?" Robbie said, laughing.

Bodie let the geriatric statement go, and then shooed Robbie out of the shed and back to his barracks with a warning to come no more often than was absolutely necessary.

As he watched Robbie cross the fields, he forced himself not to think about Doyle and Cowley, not to think about how he was endangering Robbie's life, not to think about the danger he himself was in.

He almost succeeded.

* * *

The dream started well enough.

He was lying in a green and pleasant meadow, head propped on one elbow, the summer sun warming him through. As he watched, Bodie topped the hill he was facing, moving towards him with an easy stride and a smile on his face. Doyle couldn't help smiling himself, couldn't help anticipating the touch of Bodie's hand, the taste of his mouth. Bodie sat down beside him, reaching out to touch Doyle's face with a fingertip. Doyle seized the hand in a bruising grip and kissed Bodie's fingertips, his palm, the pulse point at his wrist.

A subtle move and Bodie was straddling him. With a boyish grin, he pinned Doyle's hands with his own and leaned in close to his face. "Don't forget me, Ray," Bodie said, before he inclined his head just a fraction more and his lips made contact with Doyle's. Doyle felt an electric jolt of arousal flood every nerve in his body, even as he thought what a daft thing that was for Bodie to say. How could he forget Bodie when he was right here with him?

Then the scene shifted and he was no longer in a pleasant meadow but a craggy, unwelcoming field, rocks and scrub brush everywhere and a decaying stone wall running beside him. The sun was setting, with a bank of charcoal grey clouds moving in to obliterate the last of its light, and he was utterly alone.

"Bodie," he yelled, knowing his partner had to be here, somewhere. Perhaps over the next rise, perhaps crouched behind the wall ahead like the silly bugger he was.

He searched and searched, walking, then running, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his shirt tearing on the thorns and branches blocking his way, but still there was no sign of Bodie. And then the sun completely dropped below the horizon, and he was in complete darkness, the sky a starless velvet over his head. He stumbled over rocks he could no longer see until they tripped him up.

His foot struck a large rock and he twisted his ankle trying to catch himself and fell hard onto the unyielding ground. He scrambled to push himself up and his fingers brushed against something that was neither stone nor wood. Something soft and yielding.

"Bodie?" He stretched his hands out, his fingertips finding leather and cotton and hair. He knew with absolutely certainty that it was Bodie, this unmoving figure he could feel but not see, this man who would not answer him. He cradled the body in his arms, stroking his hair, his cheek.

And then, without warning, the clouds that had annihilated the moon and stars erupted in a blaze of lighting and thunder and Doyle could see the horror that Bodie had become.

He awoke with a start, a scream stifled in his throat, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat in spite of the chill of the room. He clenched his jaw against a wave of nausea as the sensations of the dream overwhelmed him. The smell of the field had followed into wakefulness. He could smell the loam, the ozone of the lightning, and the stench of Bodie's blood in his nostrils.

He'd had this nightmare, or one of its awful brethren, far too often in the time since Cowley had confirmed that Bodie was undercover, had shown him the price that Bodie would pay if his cover were discovered. His nights were haunted by visions of Bodie's death, while his days were troubled by the memory of the dead MI5 agents.

Thoughts of death seemed to infect him and the world around him until he wanted nothing more than oblivion himself. Not that he could even allow himself that. The dreams he'd had the night he'd allowed Murphy to get him drunk had been worse than anything since, and he'd avoided all alcohol since. Better to go teetotal than to live through that every night.

He checked his bedside clock. 4.00. Too early by far, and yet he didn't want to surrender to sleep and risk more unquiet dreams. Throwing off the covers, he pulled on a towelling robe Bodie had left at the flat and made his way to the kitchen. He knew it was pathetic, wearing Bodie's clothes. The robe didn't even smell like Bodie, not anymore, but it gave him some small comfort, having something of Bodie's next to his skin. He made coffee, knowing he wouldn't be able to live for long on too little sleep and too much caffeine, but he was going to do it as long as he could.

Until Bodie came home to him, alive and whole.

* * *

As the days passed, Bodie found subtle changes taking place in the brigade. Though he'd always been friendly, Dec's attitude towards him became even warmer, and he seemed to trust Bodie more each day. His cousins excepted, the other members of the group seemed to have accepted him totally. Conleth asked him for advice and Clancy invited him out for a pint more evenings than not. Regan was still the friendly puppy, eager for Bodie's company both in training and at the pub. Even Noel was unbending a bit towards him, though he still insisted on calling him Dead Man. The only member of the brigade whose opinion of him clearly hadn't changed was Liam. Liam was as spiteful as ever, taking every opportunity to threaten violence and revenge. Bodie had long since got used to Liam's malice, but he still kept a wary eye on his cousin, even as he settled into the routine of his new life. 

That routine finally altered one afternoon in the first week of November when he arrived at Dec's farm expecting nothing more from the day than to take the lads though more rifle drills, and found instead he'd been given an actual assignment.

"Will," Dec said with a smile and a hand on his shoulder, reminding Bodie of no one so much as a more avuncular George Cowley, "how would you like to pick up an arms shipment in Dundalk?"

"Really?" Bodie didn't have to feign his surprise. He'd begun to think that he was doomed to do nothing but repair barns and run weapons drills until he died of old age.

"Really," Dec said. "We've had word from the boys in the Republic that a delivery is due tomorrow. I want you to back up Noel."

Bodie looked over at his cousin, and Noel gave him a guarded nod in response.

"I'd love to, Dec," Bodie said, not letting his cousin's lack of enthusiasm dampen his own.

"Good lad." Dec gave him a friendly punch on the arm. "Now, off you go. You still have time to take this lot through one last rifle drill. I'm sure they could use it."

Bodie nodded, agreeing with Dec that the brigade could use some more practice. They'd done crack work with handguns, had been not bad at ambushes, and they could teach him a thing or two about building a bomb, but rifles were proving more of a challenge. He'd been teaching them to fire from a prone position and they weren't all taking to the lesson. Noel in particular kept complaining and wanting to rise to his knees to take his shot. Bodie couldn't quite convince him that he could be as accurate firing from his stomach and without the added danger of presenting a bigger target to his enemy's guns.

He concentrated on the drill, using the comfort of the familiar tasks to counter the adrenaline that flooded his system now that he was finally moving closer to achieving his goal of obtaining enough information to nail this group before they did something truly dire.

When the drills were over, he and Noel spent several hours in Dec's kitchen, going over the possible routes into Dundalk and back with Dec and Conleth. They studied places where a patrol could ambush them and made note of the latest rumours of Army movement in the area. Bodie pored over the maps until he knew every cow path and lay-by, until he could have drawn a map of his own in his sleep.

Finally, when they had planned for every eventuality and the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, Dec let them go.

"See you both back here at noon, then," Dec said, giving both of them a friendly slap on the back and sending them out the door.

Bodie followed Noel out and headed over to his bike. Movement caught his eye, and he looked over and saw Liam emerge from behind the house and sling an arm around Noel's shoulder. The mad bastard must have been waiting in the yard for hours while they planned the weapons run.

Noel must have felt himself being watched, because he turned and gave Bodie a curt nod before heading for his old Cortina. Liam wasn't nearly so restrained. He scowled at Bodie and drew one finger slowly across his throat before sliding into the passenger side of his brother's car.

Bodie waited until their car had roared out onto the road to put on his helmet, started up his bike, and set off for Mo's.

That night, his dreams were full of visions of grid lines and elevation markers and an endless, gnarled maze of roads that he couldn't quite sort out. And at the end of every road, Liam stood waiting for him with a grin and a loaded Armalite.

* * *

The next morning, Robbie was waiting at their meeting place, but Bodie's distraction had only increased.

"What's wrong with you, Old Man?" Robbie asked after he'd had to repeat a question for the third time.

"Nothing's wrong," Bodie lied. "Just didn't get enough sleep last night." And that wasn't quite a lie. He'd slept little enough.

"Nothing you want to tell me?" Robbie gave him a hard look. "Nothing you want me to tell Mr. Cowley?"

"No." Bodie shook his head, not wanting to pull Robbie into this further until he had to. "Nothing for Cowley yet, but I may have soon. Maybe later this week."

"Great," Robbie said with the enthusiasm of youth. "I can't wait."

"What have I told you mate?"

"I know, I know. Be careful. Follow your instructions." Robbie rolled his eyes. "But everything's going fine."

"Yeah. Because you're being careful and following instructions."

"Christ, you're like a broken record, Old Man."

"Better I'm a broken record than you run into trouble because of me."

"Whatever you say. Now, do you want that last scone or is it mine?"

Bodie gave Robbie a friendly cuff and took the last scone. He would miss Jen's mum's scones once he was back in London, and then smiled when he realized that Robbie and the scones had taken his mind off the fact that he would soon be crossing the Irish border to bring back a load of weapons and ammunition meant to inflict more suffering on an island that had already suffered too much. For a few minutes at least. And when he waved goodbye to Robbie, it was with a slightly lighter heart than he'd woken with.

 

Bodie arrived at Dec's farm at exactly noon and found Noel waiting for him. His cousin was leaning against the small lorry they would be using to pick up the arms shipment, his arms crossed in front of him, a frown on his face. Liam stood beside him, looking even more menacing than his brother.

As Bodie stowed his helmet on his bike and approached the lorry, Liam moved forward to meet him.

"You listen to me, Dead Man," Liam said quietly, getting right in Bodie's face. "You bring my brother back safely, or don't come back at all. ‘Cause I'll fuckin' kill you if anything happens to him."

"Don't worry, Liam. Nothing'll happen to Noel when he's with me. I promise."

"You'd better."

Bodie only nodded in response, knowing there was nothing to be gained by crossing Liam now. Far from satisfied but with his point made, Liam stalked away and stood glowering at him from across the yard.

He waited by the lorry in silence with Noel until Dec came out to meet them. Dec gave them a few last-minute instructions, told them there were no Army patrols expected on their route, and sent them on their way. He also gave Bodie the fake ID he'd be using to cross the border. It had a fucking awful picture and the name of William Berkeley.

The trip into Dundalk was uneventful but tense. Noel took the wheel and wouldn't speak more than a single syllable at a time. After a while Bodie stopped even trying to make conversation. He settled himself into his seat and kept an eye out for anything unusual.

They took a manned border crossing into the Republic of Ireland, giving the sergeant who stopped them a load of old bollocks about picking up pig feed. Bodie's new ID passed without comment and none of the soldiers gave either of them a second glance. 

They arrived in Dundalk and Noel took them to the pub where Bodie had first met his cousins. The regulars gave him the same surly looks that they had before, when they'd thought he might be an English spy, but those looks eased slightly when Noel vouched for him, however reluctantly.

Several hours were spent in the pub, with beer being consumed and the English disparaged at every turn. Bodie didn't let the insults to the British faze him, and he nursed his pints. He didn't want to get legless with a bunch of Republicans who probably still wanted him dead.

Bodie was beginning to wonder if they were ever going to do what they'd come here for when the head of the Dundalk group stood. He was a big bloke, and Noel had introduced him only as Jimmy, but in the weeks he'd been stuck in this town, Bodie had discovered his full name was James Kemp and he was originally from Belfast.

"I suppose you boys'll be wanting your little shipment, then," Jimmy said.

"That's right," Noel said.

"Fine. You can follow me in your lorry." He pointed at Bodie. "He can drive. He's not quite so arseholed on the booze as you are."

As Noel complained, Bodie made a note to himself not to underestimate any of these lads. Jimmy was sharp enough to have realized that Bodie hadn't been downing his pints as fast as the rest of them. He wondered briefly what else he'd noticed.

They all spilled out into the car park and into three cars and the lorry. Bodie followed directly behind Jimmy's car, and the two remaining cars followed him. No place for him to go if he'd wanted to escape, Bodie noted. Not with him boxed in and hedges and stone walls tight on either side of the road. 

The small procession of vehicles drove through winding country roads until Jimmy turned down a nondescript lane. Bodie followed, with the rest bringing up the rear. They all came to a stop in front of an ancient-looking stone barn set beside an even more ancient-looking farmhouse.

Cautiously, Bodie got out of the lorry, wondering if they had sussed out where his true loyalties lay. They were in the middle of nowhere, with the light of early evening fading around them, and Bodie knew that this would be a perfect place to be rid of an English spy. But they didn't bring out the lead pipes or Armalites, just led him and Noel into the barn where a stack of crates awaited them.

"Here you go," Jimmy said. "Is your lorry big enough to hold them all, do you think?"

"I think so," Bodie said, doing the mental calculations. "It'll be tight, but they should fit."

After an hour of hauling crates and pushing them around in the back of the van, they finally managed to fit them all in. A cup of tea, a visit to the loo, directions on how to get back to the main road, and they were off.

Bodie took the driving duties again, with Noel a sullen presence breathing alcoholic fumes into the cramped quarters of the van's cab.

They made the border easily, this time taking a road that was little more than a cow path and crossing at a place where there were no soldiers to be seen. They travelled deeper into the North with no other traffic at all on the dark roads. Until Bodie thought he saw a flash up ahead.

"Did you see that?"

"See what?" Noel roused himself and sat up straighter in his seat.

"Christ, you're supposed to be paying attention." Bodie slowed the van, turned off the running lights and closely examined the road in front of him. "Thought I saw something up ahead."

"There's nothing there," Noel said impatiently, then he froze. "No, there is something." He pointed to where a light was visible flashing in and out of the trees in front of them. As they watched, the light resolved itself into a set of headlights, perhaps a mile or two away.

"Fuck," Bodie said, succinctly expressing his feelings as he snapped of their own lights. "Thought there weren't supposed to be any patrols this way."

"We don't know it's a patrol."

"Do you want to take that chance?" Bodie said, even as he stopped and then began reversing down the road.

"What are you doing, you mad bastard?" Noel clutched the dashboard as he was thrown about by the rough road.

"There's a small turnoff about fifty yards back. We should be out of sight there."

Noel didn't say anything else, and Bodie was glad of that. He needed every ounce of concentration to keep the heavily loaded lorry on the road, thanking whatever God looked after CI5 agents that the moon was bright enough that he could see the road, and praying that it wasn't bright enough that the vehicle heading their way could see them. All the time the headlights in front of them were getting closer and closer. Finally, he reached the lane he'd spotted and turned quickly into it, pulling back far enough that they should be hidden from the main road by trees. He quickly turned off the truck, and he and Noel sat in the dark of the cab, the only sound the harsh panting of their breath and the ticking of the engine.

Within a minute, the approaching vehicle passed them by. It was an Army lorry. Bodie could see the soldier at the wheel as it passed, could see the squaddies in the back as it pulled away.

They sat there in silence another ten minutes, waiting to see if any other Army patrols were about. When no other vehicles appeared, Bodie finally relaxed. He could hear Noel's breathing ease beside him.

He looked over at his cousin, and saw the most extraordinary thing. Noel was grinning at him, his teeth gleaming in the dim light of the moon. And it wasn't one of the vicious smiles that Noel had bestowed upon him up until now. It was an honest-to-God, exhilarated smile.

"What are you looking at me like that for?"

"Like what?" Noel asked, but he didn't stop grinning.

"You're smiling like a fucking loon, you tosser."

"You were brilliant, Will. Just brilliant." Noel punched him on the arm, and for the first time there was no obvious menace behind his action. "Liam couldn't have done better."

Bodie felt his own jaw drop in shock.

"What?" Noel asked.

"You called me Will. Not Dead Man." 

"I can go back to Dead Man, if you like." Noel was actually laughing as he said it.

"Nah. Think I've got sick of Dead Man at last." Bodie paused and stroked his chin. "Never much cared for Will, though. Reminds me too much of Da."

"He was a right bastard, wasn't he?" Noel said with a grim smile.

"Was?" Bodie felt a hollow sensation in his middle.

"Yeah. The drink finally caught up with him last year. Died in the spring. Didn't you know?"

"No, I didn't." Bodie swallowed hard and wondered if the Cow had known about his father's death. And if he had, what Byzantine reasoning had stopped him from telling Bodie. "I haven't been back to Liverpool since I was a teenager. Never wanted to set eyes on the place again. Nor my father."

"Can't blame you, there. I wasn't over fond of Uncle Will myself. So, what did they call you in your mob, if it wasn't Will?"

"Bodie. Just Bodie." He gave Noel a wry look. "Wouldn't work over here, though. Too bloody many of us."

"Guess you're stuck with Will, then."

"I don't mind it so much now. I like hearing it from Mo. Not even too bad coming from you."

"Thanks." Noel's tone was equal parts sarcasm and amusement.

"You know," Bodie mused aloud, "those birthday cards you and Liam sent are the only contact I've had with my family since I was fourteen."

Noel looked almost embarrassed.

"Sorry about those. We can be a bit bloodthirsty when we're drunk. And we were usually drunk when we sent those."

"I reckoned as much. Your writing was appalling."

"It wasn't that bad." Noel was indignant.

"Oh yeah? Two years ago I couldn't tell if you'd written ‘see you in hell' or ‘pee down a well.'"

"Ah. Well, I can see how you knew that we were drunk."

"Must have been completely pissed, mate."

"I'm sure we were." Noel stopped talking for a moment and the look on his face went from pleased to very serious indeed. "Thanks, Will. A lot. We both know I wasn't keen on having you join us, but I can see I was wrong."

"Don't mention it." He swallowed hard, the look on Noel's face suddenly too close to what he'd seen on Doyle's when Bodie had pulled his partner out of a particularly bad scrape. He groped around for a way to deflect Noel's gratitude. And found it. "Besides, I was saving my own bollocks too, wasn't I? The Brits would be as pleased to get their bloody hands on me as you." 

"You're right enough, there."

"I'm always right." He slapped Noel on the back. "Now, shouldn't we get going?"

"Yeah. Let's get moving before Dec wonders what happened to us."

They arrived at Dec's farm just after ten, Bodie having taken the long way around to throw off any possible surveillance. Dec greeted them in the yard, backed by all the members of the brigade, including a grim-looking Liam.

"The Dundalk boys just gave me a bell," Dec said. "Told me that the British sent a surprise patrol to the border near where you were supposed to cross."

"Yeah," Noel said. "And I wish someone had thought to tell us that before we left."

"You saw them?"

"We saw them." Noel clapped threw his arm around Bodie's shoulder. "But Will got us through. Spotted them before they spotted us and got us off the road quick enough."

"He did, did he?" Dec looked pleased.

"Yeah. Not a bad man to have in a tight spot, our Will."

"Glad to hear it." Dec gave them both firm pats on the back. "I owe you both a shot of good whiskey. But first..."

"But first, we've got to unload that lot." Bodie nodded at the van and its cargo.

"Exactly." Dec looked at them all. "C'mon, the quicker we get it all in the barn, the quicker we can open a bottle."

The promise of alcohol got everyone moving, and the crates were soon unloaded into a hidden compartment in Dec's barn. From there they would be distributed to weapons caches throughout the county in the next few days, providing ammunition for months to come.

Once the crates were unloaded and stashed in their hiding place, the brigade trooped into Dec's kitchen and the promised bottle of whiskey was produced. 

It was the greatest surprise to Bodie that Noel continued to be friendly towards him, joining in with Regan making matey jokes at his expense, defending him when Clancy jokingly cast aspersions on his abilities. And he was even more surprised that he found he was enjoying spending time with Noel. When the berk wasn't behaving like a homicidal nutter, he was good company.

Liam, however, remained unbending. He didn't share in the jokes, avoided the whiskey, and scowled at Bodie for the rest of the evening. If looks could kill, Bodie reckoned he'd have been a corpse several times over by the end of the evening. 

When the drinking was done, not that Bodie had allowed himself to consume too much, he waved goodbye to the rest of the lads, got a sloppy hug from Noel, and hopped on his bike. As he pulled away from the farmhouse, the cold night air making his cheeks burn, he glanced in his mirror and saw Liam staring at him with a look that contained nothing but unadulterated hatred.

* * *

In the morning, his head a bit the worse for the whiskey, Bodie put on his track suit and trainers and headed out for his morning run. At the end of it, Robbie was waiting in his usual spot, eager as always.

"So, Old Man, got any information for me today?"

"Maybe," Bodie said noncommittally. 

"No such thing as maybe. You either do or you don't."

"Maybe I do and maybe I don't, but you'll have to catch me first." Bodie took off at a run, satisfied to hear Robbie scrambling to catch him up. He stayed ahead of the squaddy all the way to the shed.

"Victory!" Bodie yelled, lifting his hands above his head in triumph as he burst through the door.

"Not bad for an old ‘un," Robbie said with a grin.

"Not so much of the old, sonny. Or I'll thwap you with my cane." Bodie collapsed in a heap on one of the chairs they'd set up inside to make the place more hospitable.

"You'd never hit a lad in uniform." Robbie sat beside him.

"I'd hit your granny, even in uniform," Bodie said with a laugh. "I'm a vicious nutter. My friends'll tell you."

"I don't doubt it." Robbie leaned back on his elbows and looked at the sky. "So, do you have any information for Cowley?"

"Yeah, I do." Bodie sighed, realizing he couldn't avoid the issue any longer. "I was sent to pick up an arms shipment yesterday." 

"You're joking."

"Nope. We brought it across the border and hid it at Dec Harris' farm. Guns, ammunition, the lot. It'll be spread out to various caches in the next week."

"Christ." Robbie's voice was low, his usual enthusiasm somewhat dampened.

"Christ wouldn't want to find himself in this bloody country, that's a certainty."

"I'm beginning to realize that."

"I did tell you."

"Well, as you're clearly edging towards senility, I didn't take you seriously."

"You silly git." Bodie leaned over and gave Robbie's arm a shove. "So, you ready to hear what you need to tell the Cow?"

"You don't call him that?" Robbie's eyes went wide.

"Well, not to his face." Bodie pointed a finger at Robbie. "And don't you, either. He'll know where you got it from, and he'll give me a kicking once I'm back in London."

"'Course not," Robbie said, his face all innocence. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Just you remember." Bodie sat up straight and cleared his throat. "Okay, here's what you need to tell him..."

He told Robbie about the crossing, the Republicans they'd met in Dundalk, and the place they'd picked up the weapons from. He told him where they'd crossed the border and where they'd run into the patrol. And he told him where Dec hid the weapons on his farm. As before, he made Robbie repeat it all back, along with Cowley's number and his promises to be careful when making the phone call.

"You got all that?"

"Yeah. No problem. I'll call him today, first chance I get."

"Great. Tell him I'll get him the location of the caches, soon as I can."

"Will do." Robbie stood up. "I'm going to Jen's again tonight. Shall I come back tomorrow?"

Bodie bit his lip and considered the question. Just meeting with Robbie was a risk, but so far they'd not even had a close call. And the days when he hadn't met with the lad, he'd missed him.

"Yeah, why not? Just–"

"Be careful. I know." Robbie took off at a trot. "Bye, Old Man. See you tomorrow."

Bodie spared him a final wave, and then set off for Mo's.

He crossed the fields in an easy lope, thinking that perhaps everything was going to work out well and not paying enough attention to his surroundings. Which was why he was nearly at the house before he noticed a familiar car parked in the front: Noel's battered Cortina.

He stopped short, wondering what the hell Noel was doing here and why he hadn't heard the car's sputtering engine approaching. His cousin had mostly avoided Mo's home since Bodie had arrived, no doubt wanting to minimize contact with him. And Bodie had been quite happy with that arrangement. It was enough that he saw him at Dec's.

And then there was the possibility that Noel might have seen him with Robbie. Bodie damned himself for a fool for bringing the squaddy into this. He didn't want the boy's blood on his conscience. And then there was the mission itself. If Noel saw him with a British soldier, in or out of uniform, there was no chance he could carry out his mission. Hell, there was no chance at all he would even manage to stay alive.

Still, there was no way to find out why Noel was here but to go forward, so go forward he did. He approached at a walk, not wanting to be winded when he confronted Noel.

Bodie pushed open the back door of the farm house, willing himself not to show his unease.

"Mo, I'm back," he said. He could hear voices from the kitchen, so that was where he headed.

"Will, come see who's here for a visit." Mo's voice was brighter than he'd heard since he'd arrived. He could actually hear laughter lurking behind it.

"I saw your shiftless brother's car out front, if that's who you mean," Bodie said as he stepped into the kitchen.

"I'll give you shiftless, you English bastard," Noel said. And though the words were something his cousin might have said a week ago, the tone was completely different: open and joking. He had a pleasant smile on his face, and he looked almost happy to see Bodie. 

Noel was sitting at the kitchen table, the remains of a cooked breakfast in front of him. His body language spoke not of hostility but of an uncomplicated friendliness.

Bodie felt something ease inside of him, though he didn't relax his guard completely. It was possible Noel was here for something other than a pleasant visit, though it looked unlikely. Still, that was exactly how Bodie was going to play it.

"I don't suppose you've saved me any sausage?" Bodie said, sitting down across from Noel.

"I've eaten every last one," Noel said with a grin.

"That's it. I'll have to kill you now."

"You're daft, the pair of you," Mo said in mock disgust. She took a plate of eggs and sausage out of the cooker from where it was staying warm and placed it in front of Bodie. "Happy now?"

"Ta," Bodie said, before tucking into the food. 

He'd eaten half the sausages and all the eggs, satisfying the hunger his run had stoked in him, before he finally looked up.

"So, you here on business?" Bodie asked calmly.

"Can't I visit my sister without it being business?" Noel's voice dripped with mock hurt.

"Can he, Mo?"

"Usually, no. Though it has been known to happen."

"Christ, my own sister."

"Who knows you better, Noel? And anyway, you know as well as I do that I don't often see you from one month to the next."

"That's fair enough," Noel said. "But I really did just stop by for a social visit. Thought you might like some help with Mo's roof slates, Will."

"I'm nearly done with the slates, but you can help me finish it off. I thought I'd take a look at the tractor after that. It's been a bit dodgy."

"Tractors are my specialty. I spend more time fixing ours than using it."

"Perfect," Bodie said, and stuffed the remaining sausage in his mouth. "Let me get out of this gear and into my work clothes and we can get to it."

Bodie clattered up the stairs and closed the door of his room behind him. He sank onto the bed, allowing himself to relax for a few brief moments. If he was any judge of character, and he liked to think he was, Noel was telling the truth. He was just here for a friendly visit, the change in attitude he'd shown last night not having evaporated with the light of day. Which was good for Bodie's mission. But bad for Robbie.

If Noel was going to be popping in at Mo's unexpectedly, there was no way he could meet with the squaddy in the mornings. The risk that they'd be discovered together was too great. He was going to have to break off any contact with Robbie.

It would be hard. He liked Mo, and if Noel was going to stop acting like a homicidal maniac he suspected he'd grow to like his cousin. But Robbie was the one person around whom Bodie didn't have to pretend to be something he wasn't. Robbie was the one real friend he had in this bastard place.

But better to lose the friendship than risk the mission. Better to stop seeing the boy than to risk his scrawny young neck any more than he'd already done.

So, he'd see him tomorrow, share one more cuppa with him, and then he'd not see him again.

That decision made, Bodie changed into the old jeans and jumper he'd been wearing for working around the farm and ventured back downstairs.

* * *

The next morning Bodie woke long before his alarm. He lay in bed, watching the grey, pre-dawn light play across the wall opposite him. He was dreading meeting with Robbie, not least because he feared the squaddy would ignore him and come to the farm anyway. If that happened, Bodie knew he'd have to act. Break the stupid bastard's arm and send him packing back to England in a cast, if worse came to worst.

Ten minutes before he would normally rise, he gave a loud sigh and threw off the covers. He was dressed and out the door in minutes.

He did his usual run in record time and for once beat Robbie to their meeting spot. Too keyed up to sit, he paced up and down the wall, keeping an eye on the spot on the horizon where Robbie would appear. And appear he did.

"'Lo, Old Man," Robbie said with a wave. "You're early this morning."

"Yeah," Bodie said without enthusiasm.

Robbie clearly sensed something was different and his manner changed immediately. His back was stiff and his expression became deadly serious.

"Something wrong?"

"You might say that." Bodie nodded in the direction of the shed. "Come on."

He led the way, with Robbie following behind him, both of them more silent than they'd ever been together. Bodie didn't pull any punches, didn't delay the blow. He simply shut the shed's door, turned to Robbie and said, "You can't come here any more. We can't meet any more."

"What?" The shock was visible on the boy's face. "Why the fuck not?"

"When I got back to the farm yesterday, Noel was waiting for me."

"Does he suspect you're still working for CI5?"

"No. I think he wants to be friends." Bodie gave a harsh, humourless laugh. "Stupid bastard's grateful to me for getting us out of that jam with the British patrol."

"Then there's no reason I can't—"

"Use your head, Robbie. If he wants to be friends, he's liable to stop by any time, and come looking for me if he can't find me. He could see us together, and that'd be as bad for you as it would for me."

"It's not likely..." Robbie said, clearly gearing up for an argument.

"It's possible," Bodie said softly, not liking it any more than the boy did. "And it's not worth the risk."

"It is." Robbie was nearly yelling at him. "If your mission is worth the risk, then it's worth it for me to get the information back to Cowley."

"I'm trained to take this sort of risk. You're not."

"I'm a soldier, Bodie. Just like you were. I know the score."

"No you fucking don't," Bodie roared. "No matter how much I tell you how dangerous the IRA are, you're never going to know it in your bones until you see what they're capable of first hand. And I'm not going to be the reason that happens."

"What if I keep coming here?"

"You won't find me."

"What if I go looking for you at your cousin's farm?"

"If you're that stupid, I'll put a bullet in you myself."

"You're just crazy enough to do it, aren't you?" Robbie said, before looking down intently at the ground. He was silent for several long minutes before he finally spoke a single emphatic word. "Fuck." He viciously kicked at a stack of shovels in the corner, wincing as they all clattered to the floor.

"Does that mean I've finally convinced you?" Bodie asked.

"You haven't convinced me, but you haven't left me any choice, have you?"

"That was my plan."

"Stupid bastard." He finally looked up, his eyes bright with a frustrated anger that reminded Bodie all too much of Doyle at his stroppy worst. "Well, since I'm here, do you at least want to have the tea I brought?"

"Are the scones to go with it?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'll have a cuppa."

They drank tea and ate scones and talked about how the weather was getting colder and how it was going to snow soon, but it wasn't a comfortable time. There were too many strong emotions curling between them.

When the tea was gone and there was nothing left of the scones but crumbs, Bodie gave Robbie a wan smile that Robbie returned with a frown.

"Can I ask you a question?" Robbie said.

"Not if it's about us still meeting."

"I was just wondering how you're planning on getting information to your Mr. Cowley without me."

"Well..." Bodie said.

"You haven't got a plan, have you?"

"I haven't thought that far, no." Bodie said, biting his lip. He didn't mention that he had tried to think of an alternate method and had failed. All phones in the area could be assumed to be tapped by the IRA and the mail was equally problematic. Short of carrier pigeon or waiting ‘til he was back in England, he couldn't see how he could continue to send reports to Cowley.

"Well, I've got an idea. If you'll hear me out."

"Robbie," Bodie said, a warning in his voice.

"It's a good idea, but if you don't agree I'll walk away and you'll never hear from me again."

"Right, then. Let's hear it."

"I'll give you my bird's number. If you have any information that needs to get to Cowley urgently, you call Jen and tell her that you're a mate of mine from Liverpool. That shouldn't be enough for the IRA to use against you. When I get the message, I'll meet you here the next morning at dawn."

"Hmm," Bodie said, turning the plan over in his mind, looking for a fatal flaw.

"It's good, you've got to admit," Robbie said, some of his old eagerness returning to his voice. "We only meet when it's necessary and only for the time it takes to pass on the message."

"It might work at that."

"It's a brilliant plan. I'm sure the Cow would approve."

"The Cow wouldn't approve of you calling him that."

"Get on well with Mr. Cowley, don't I? He called me a bright lad last night."

"You talked to him? What else did he say?"

"He was glad to get the news of the arms shipment and very much wants the locations of the weapons caches. I bet he'd like my plan."

"Cowley would send Maggie Thatcher herself to the front lines if he thought she could do the job."

"I'm much more reliable than the Prime Minister," Robbie said with a laugh.

"You want to use a bird," Bodie said, still trying to sound sceptical.

"Jen's all right. C'mon, admit it's a good plan."

"It's a decent plan," Bodie finally admitted. 

Robbie immediately pounded him on the back.

"But..." Bodie began.

"Christ, now what?" Robbie broke in.

"Don't interrupt your elders, sonny." Bodie gave him a friendly swat. "I was about to say that we only use this for extremely important information and you only come here if I send you a message through Jen. Don't come looking for me on your own initiative. And be..."

"...careful," Robbie said, finishing his sentence. "If I had 50 p for every time you said that, I'd be rich."

"Insolent pup."

"Yeah, that's me," Robbie said with a grin.

"So long as you realize it. Now, what's your bird's number?"

Robbie supplied the number and the best times to call Jen's house: between six and nine, when her father was likely to be out at the pub. Then with a wave, they parted.

Bodie returned to Mo's with an unreasonable sense of optimism, happy that he wasn't to be completely cut off from his one way of getting information back to Cowley and CI5, happy to have some form of contact, however slight, with a friend.

Maybe he'd finish this assignment without anyone getting hurt.

Maybe.

* * *

Murphy stared at Ray Doyle, hunched over a report at a desk in the office they shared with a half dozen other agents, his skin a ghastly grey, his eyes shadowed by too little sleep, and hoped to Christ that Bodie finished this bloody op soon and arrived back in London in one piece. Because if he didn't, if he were wounded, if he were killed, if he simply disappeared into a bog in Ireland and was never heard from again, Murphy truly feared what would become of Ray Doyle.

Not that he thought Doyle would top himself or any melodramatic nonsense like that. Doyle was a survivor, tough as old boot leather. But the cost of survival could be too high.

It had been bad enough at the beginning when Doyle had been almost constantly angry, angry at Bodie, at Cowley, at anyone involved in the sorry mess of Bodie's disappearance. More than once, Murphy had wondered if he was going to have to restrain Doyle, whether from having a go at a suspect or taking apart a stupid git of a colleague who'd made a joke about Bodie. Anson, in particular, had chanced his life with more than one jab aimed at Doyle's partner. The stupid bastard was lucky he wasn't breathing through a plastic tube.

But the anger had gradually turned into something cooler and Murphy had allowed his guard to relax.

Then had come Kevin Ranson's revelations, and grief and worry had joined with Doyle's anger. Not that Murphy blamed him. Messing about with the IRA, it was all too likely Bodie would end up dead. Or worse. He didn't like to think what kneecapping would do to a man like Bodie, and that was the least of what the IRA would do to an informer.

And Doyle...Doyle had gone quiet. Far too quiet and solitary. He'd pulled back a bit when Bodie had first disappeared, but now he was a virtual recluse. He never came out to the pub, never played pool with the lads, never shot a game of darts. He did his job with as little chat as possible, and then disappeared back to his own flat when his shift was over. 

Murphy hadn't stopped trying to include Doyle, though. Every time there was a department piss-up, every time the lads were off to watch a match at the pub, he still asked him along. Like today, when every agent not on an op would be celebrating Lucas' birthday at the end of the day shift, especially since McCabe had promised the first two rounds on him. Even some of the deep undercover lads were rumoured to be attending. Everyone but Doyle.

It was nearly the end of their shift. Murphy had finished his report on the utterly pointless obbo Cowley'd had them on all week. He snuck a look at Doyle, wondering if he'd lost a stone or if his cheekbones looked so prominent because of his obviously sleepless nights.

Doyle needed to get out, needed human contact, even if he didn't know it.

"You going to Lucas' party?" Murphy asked as Doyle signed the last page of his report.

"Nah," Doyle said, tossing the report in the out basket for the support staff to pick up. "Reckon I'll make an early night of it."

"Had a lot of those lately," Murphy said, trying to keep any judgment out of his voice.

"Yeah." And that was a mark of just how much Doyle had changed, his unwillingness to engage in conversation, let alone an argument. His lack of interest in much of anything. "Not up for much else." He shrugged into his jacket, zipped it up to his chin, and headed for the door. "See you tomorrow, Murph." He pushed open the door and nearly ran into Ruth.

"Not taking advantage of McCabe's generosity, Doyle?" Ruth asked.

"Ray's having a quiet night in," Murphy offered, not sure whether he was running interference for his temporary partner or trying to stir him back to life. Not that Doyle would be stirred.

"Cheers, Ruth," was all he said, and then he was gone. 

Ruth watched him go, a speculative look on her face, before turning back to Murphy. "Well, I certainly hope Master Bodie shows up with his name cleared soon. There won't be much of Doyle left if he doesn't."

"Doyle's all right." Murphy had got used to automatically jumping to Doyle's defence these last weeks—no, months. At first he'd needed to break up the fights Doyle kept nearly throwing himself into. Lately, though, he just kept reassuring everyone that Doyle was doing fine, even if he wasn't.

"Not by a long chalk, he isn't." Ruth was never one to settle for social niceties. "He'd better hope that Cowley doesn't send him for evaluation any time soon."

"He's tough. He'd survive anything Macklin could throw at him."

"It's not Brian or Jack he'd have to worry about, it's Kate Ross. She'd have him on suspension five minutes after he walked into her office."

"He's fine, Ruth."

"You're not a very convincing liar. Not when you're not on the job, anyway." She glanced back to where Doyle had disappeared. "Lucas and McCabe have started noticing how rough he is, Murph, and those two aren't exactly noted for their sensitivity. If they've seen it, everyone has."

Murphy sighed, knowing there was little point in hiding anything from Ruth. "I'll admit he's not at his best. But he'll get by. And I'm watching his back."

"You'd better be," Ruth said with a snort. "Because if you don't and Doyle gets so much as a scratch, Bodie will take you apart. From Wormwood Scrubs, if necessary."

"Point taken, Ruth."

"Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about Doyle."

Murphy shot her a doubting look.

"I didn't _just_ come here to talk about Doyle. I was wondering if you're going to Lucas' party. Susan's been asking about you."

"Susan and I did not work out, as I'm sure you know."

"Perhaps she wants another go."

"Perhaps she's lost her mind," Murphy said, though he was suddenly remembering the good points of the week they'd spent nearly constantly in bed together.

"Personally, I thought so too. Dating one of you lot isn't all beer and skittles. But she insists that she's an adult and in her right mind. I'm not so sure about the last bit."

"I'll make a point of telling her that, shall I?" Murphy grinned, the pleasure of scoring a point on Ruth Pettifer temporarily displacing his worry for Doyle.

"You do that, Murph. Tonight. At Lucas' party." Ruth turned on her heel and was gone.

Murph finished his own report, tossed it in the out basket with a flourish, and set off for the CI5 local. He'd been going to go anyway—he couldn't resist the thought of ordering a triple whisky on McCabe—but if Susan had been asking about him...it was tempting. And it wasn't like he could do Doyle any good by cutting down on his own social life.

He'd go, and he'd have a good time, and tomorrow he'd make sure he was back in the business of watching Ray Doyle's back. Because with Bodie off putting himself in danger in Ireland, it didn't seem like Doyle was up for looking after himself.

* * *

Bodie maintained his optimism as several weeks passed. Except for his visits with Robbie, he kept to his usual routine. Noel appeared after Bodie's morning run more often than not, and the two of them worked on Mo's place. He continued to run the brigade's training, concentrating on ambush strategies and rifle drills at Dec's request. The entire brigade, with the exception of Liam, seemed to have totally accepted him. The others' acceptance of him, especially Noel's, seemed to put Liam into an even more murderous mood than usual. If his cover was ever blown, Bodie knew that Liam was the one who would take him apart, piece by piece.

He might have been accepted as a full volunteer, but Bodie was all too aware that Dec was still holding back information from him. But Dec held things back from everyone—everyone except Conleth and possibly Noel—so Bodie wasn't too worried. And he was being given more responsibility as time passed. He'd had the job of transporting weapons from the shipment that he and Noel had brought in to several caches. And once he knew the location of all the caches, he called Robbie's bird and met with the squaddy to pass the information back to Cowley, with a warning not to raid the caches until Bodie was well out of harm's way. 

Then one grey afternoon in late November, Dec threw all his hopes for getting through this assignment with a minimum of mayhem into the dustbin where they belonged.

Bodie was on the target range with Noel, Liam and the others running through yet more rifle drills. There was a vicious cold wind blowing across the land, giving more than one of the lads trouble with their aim.

"Will, a word," Dec said, waving him over.

"Conleth, can you take over the drill?" Though he would never consider Conleth a friend, they'd developed a mutual respect for each other's abilities. "Regan needs some help compensating for the wind speed. And would you watch Noel? He's coming to his knees to take his shot again."

"Right, Will," Conleth said, even as Noel shot him a friendly two-fingered salute.

Dec led him out of earshot of the others, but where they could still watch the men in training shoot.

"So, Will, how do you think they're doing?"

"Really well." Bodie smiled as he watched Regan hit a tight grouping of shots on his target in spite of the gusting wind. "I'd lay money that they'd give even the Regiment a pasting in a fire fight."

"Grand. Glad to hear it."

Bodie heard something new in Dec's voice and turned to face the man.

"That wasn't just an idle question, was it?"

"Can't hide anything from you." Dec gave him one of his brightest smiles and put an arm around Bodie's shoulder. "No, it wasn't just an idle question. I've got a job for them. And you."

"What sort of job?"

"How are they doing with ambushes?"

"In theory, fantastic. They all know the strategies and their shooting has improved twenty-five per cent across the board. And it wasn't too shabby to begin with. We just need to see if they can keep discipline in a real situation." Bodie narrowed his eyes and looked at Dec closely. "That what the job is? An ambush?"

"The lads'll keep discipline. Don't you worry about that," Dec said, ignoring Bodie's scrutiny and his question.

"Dec?"

Dec turned and gave him the sort of warm, approving look that Bodie imagined a caring father might bestow upon a favoured son. More than ever, he understood why men had sworn to live and die for the Republic in Declan Harris' command.

"I want you to set an ambush for a British patrol. The soldiers in the Newtownhamilton base are getting sloppy, following set patterns for their patrols. Our spotters think they know where they'll be either tomorrow or the day after. We're going to be there first."

"And?" Bodie knew what Dec was going to say, but he needed to hear the words.

"And then we're going to cut them down like the English bastards they are."

Bodie felt a cold flush run through his body as he realized just what he was going to have to do: either kill English soldiers whose only crime was being unlucky enough to be stationed in this snakepit of a country, or break his cover and face death himself. It was no choice at all.

And worse, Robbie was based out of Newtownhamilton. If Robbie was in the patrol they faced...it didn't bear thinking on.

But all this he kept from his face, instead showing Dec only the expression of an eager fighter.

"Bring them on," Bodie said with a smile.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in planning the ambush. Dec's spotters had done all the groundwork, identifying a cow path that patrols had started using on a semi-regular basis, as well as several possible positions for any ambush.

Bodie helped Dec pick the men for the ambush. Bodie and Noel would form one team, Clancy and Conleth the other. Conleth would be in charge, but Bodie would make any operational decisions. If it hadn't been such a deadly situation, Bodie would have been flattered by Dec's confidence in him.

Bodie helped his team get together the equipment they needed, the weapons and ammunition, as well as trenching tools for digging in and some basic rations to last the two days they might need to be there. He also insisted they bring a basic first aid kit. If any of them were wounded, he wanted to have at least a chance of getting them clear.

He guided the team in the selection of the location for an observation post, the OP, where the team not on watch would rest, and the LUP, the lying-up point, where the active team would wait to attack.

He tried to treat the job like any other op, concentrating on the details and ignoring the fact that he was being asked to kill men on his own side of the conflict. He especially tried not to think about Robbie, but he couldn't help himself there.

By eight that night their plans were complete. Since no patrol had approached the ambush point before mid-afternoon, the team would be meeting at Dec's at eight the next morning, hiking the five miles north and digging in. 

Bodie left the rest of the team at Dec's, sharing a bottle, and roared off on his motorcycle. It had been difficult, convincing the others that he shouldn't stay and celebrate their coming victory, but he'd begged off with the excuse that he wanted an early night so he'd be fresh for the ambush. His only thought as he drove through the darkened roads was to get a message through to Robbie, to try and warn the boy.

He detoured through Cullyhanna and stopped at the phone box on the outskirts, fishing a 10 p coin out of his pocket and placing the call to Robbie's bird.

The last time he'd called, Jen herself had answered. This time, however, it was a man who gave him a gruff hello. Her dad, no doubt.

"Is Jen there?" Bodie asked, making sure his accent was firmly Scouse.

"Who's this?" the man asked, his tone of voice making it clear that he didn't approve of any presumptuous male calling his daughter.

"It's Robbie's friend from Liverpool. Could you give her that message?"

"I don't know any Robbie, and neither does my Jen." The connection was broken with a slam that made Bodie wince.

"Fucking hell," Bodie said, replacing the phone box's receiver with nearly the same violence that Jen's father had used. With any luck, Jen would have heard her father talking to him and figured out she needed to get a message to Robbie. But if his luck was running badly...well, Bodie just hoped his luck wasn't running badly and moved on.

He arrived at Mo's to find her watching a crap comedy on the telly, and sat down to join her. He laughed automatically at jokes he didn't even hear, then when the show was over claimed an exhaustion that was only partly feigned and mounted the stairs to his room.

In spite of his fatigue, it took him hours to get to sleep, hours spent staring at the ceiling and listening to the relentless tick of Jilly's Noddy alarm clock on the dresser. When he did finally sleep, it was to be haunted by unquiet dreams of a cemetery where Doyle and Robbie perched on gravestones and asked him what he was going to do.

* * *

He woke when it was still dark and dressed without turning on a light. He was at Robbie's wall before the sun had crested the horizon, his breath clouds of grey mist in the dim pre-dawn light. He waited as long as he could, hoping Robbie had got his message and would be able to meet him, but at quarter past seven, with his teeth chattering in the late autumn chill, he finally admitted to himself that the squaddy wouldn't be coming.

He ran full speed to Mo's, took a quick shower and left for Dec's with only a warning to Mo that he might be gone for a day or two. As he waved goodbye to Mo, he could see the worry in her eyes and hoped he'd managed to hide his own dread from her.

When he arrived at Dec's, the rest of the brigade was there, even Liam, and in high spirits. Regan gave him a swig of whiskey, which he gladly took, and Dec shook everyone's hands and made a speech about how they were all heroes of the Republic. Bodie was chronically allergic to big speeches, always had been, but Dec's was different. He managed to somehow make Bodie proud of what he was doing without indulging in ridiculous rhetoric. Yet again, Bodie was struck by how good a leader he was, and how dangerous an enemy.

Speeches made, luck wished, Bodie and Conleth made a last check of everyone's equipment before they all shrugged on their bergens and began the hike north to the ambush point. They went five miles over scrubby fields, Bodie pushing everyone to maintain a fast pace so they were there in just over an hour. Another hour and they were dug in. They set up the observation post on the other side of a hedge, well hidden from the cow path the soldiers were said to take. The lying-up point was on a hillock just overlooking the path. The team waiting there would lie in shallow trenches, covered in hay to hide their position. With Conleth's blessing, Bodie set the schedule. He and Noel took the first watch, and would trade off with Conleth and Clancy, two hours on, two hours off.

Bodie often thought that anyone who wanted to be a soldier because he thought it was a glamorous life should be made to stand ambush for a couple of hours. It was bloody tedious work, too hot in the summer, too cold any other time. Your muscles and joints stiffened up bloody quickly, but you couldn't move an inch or you'd reveal your position. 

And the physical discomfort was the least of it. Your mind played tricks with you on ambush. The wind would turn into whispering voices, or you'd see phantom movement out of the corner of your eye and you'd get jumpy, certain you were about to be attacked. Above all, you had to concentrate, even when there was absolutely nothing going on. Let your attention stray, even for an instant, and you could miss your target. Or become your enemy's target.

That first day, Bodie did two shifts with Noel, and every minute was as miserable as any other ambush he'd sat. The wind had come up, finding its way down collars and up sleeves, and a light drizzle soon had them as soaked as an outright downpour would have done. Bodie reckoned it would have been better if the temperature had dropped even further, turning the drizzle into snow. They might have been colder, but at least they wouldn't have been wet.

Not that Bodie couldn't take the physical misery. He'd been through worse with CI5, and in the Regiment they'd thrived on shite weather. But what he hated most was having the time to think about what he was doing. To consider that he was waiting for a British patrol to crest that hill in front of them so that he could squeeze the trigger and take their lives.

By the end of their second shift, the patrol still hadn't appeared and the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the barren field. Bodie felt a small hope that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have to choose what to do when a British patrol came calling. When the sun dipped below the horizon, he and Noel pulled back to the OP where Conleth and Clancy waited. On Dec's orders, they were only to lay the ambush during the daylight. Patrols had never been spotted out this way after dark, for which Bodie was eternally thankful.

As they made their way carefully back to the OP, Bodie entertained a fantasy that they would return to Dec's farm tonight, and then he might be able to get word to Robbie after all, but Conleth immediately dashed that fantasy.

"There's a cow shed just over the next hill," Conleth said, pointing. "We can stay overnight there and get an early start in the morning."

Bodie didn't argue, knowing that Conleth's suggestion made sense, even if it killed his last hope of warning Robbie.

"Can we brew up some tea?" Clancy asked hopefully. They'd exhausted the thermoses of tea they'd brought with them hours before.

"No fire," Bodie said firmly. "Not unless you want to give away our position."

"You listen to Will," Conleth said with a nod. "Knows his stuff."

So, the four of them trooped through the fields and spent an uncomfortable night huddled in the musty straw of the abandoned cow shed. With no fire, their clothes stayed damp, and the wind whistling through gaps in the dilapidated shed chilled them all straight through.

Lying in the darkness, Bodie listened as one by one the others drifted off, their breathing falling into the easy rhythms of sleep. Bodie lay awake for hours more, and his last thought as he plunged into the dark waters of oblivion was to hope that Dec's spotters were wrong about a British patrol coming this way. And that he wouldn't be on the ambush if a patrol did materialize.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon on the second day of the ambush when a patrol finally did appear on the horizon, four men in British uniform trudging across the field. Bodie's hopes to the contrary, he and Noel were doing their two hours at the LUP when the patrol came into view.

Bodie felt his heart rate increase immediately when he saw them, so he took several deep breaths to calm himself down. Beside him, Noel shifted nervously and Bodie could hear his cousin's breath speed up.

"Steady now," Bodie whispered. "Wait ‘til they're well in range."

Noel didn't reply, but he seemed to settle down.

Bodie kept his breathing steady and concentrated on keeping his muscles loose as he watched the men approach. He tried not to think about anything, not how cold and stiff he was, not how his leg was threatening to fall asleep, and most especially not how he felt to be preparing to shoot men who were simply doing their job, men who were working for the same greater good that he was himself. They were soldiers, he told himself. They knew death was part of the package when they signed on. It wasn't his lookout if they showed up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Then the last man in the patrol ran to catch up with the others and Bodie felt a cold nausea overwhelm him.

That last man was Robbie.

Even at this distance, his face obscured by a helmet that was fractionally too big for him, Bodie recognized the boy's loping stride. As the men drew closer to their position, Bodie could see that Robbie was laughing with the other patrol members, the sound of their voices carrying to where he and Noel lay.

His stomach churned as Bodie tried to find a way out of the situation. Let Noel shoot Robbie and his patrol? He didn't know if he could forgive himself that. Shoot Noel? He couldn't break cover yet. He knew fuck all about the bombing he'd come here to stop, and besides, shoot Noel and he reckoned that Liam would find a way to put a bullet in his brain no matter where he hid. Shoot at the soldiers himself and aim to wound? At this distance, he'd be as likely to kill as not. And in the end, Noel would probably want to deliver close-range killing shots. Talk Noel out of firing? Impossible. 

All solutions were equally flawed.

"Now?" Noel whispered, his voice breaking into Bodie's thoughts.

"Hold," Bodie replied, falling easily into his sergeant's voice.

"But they're close."

"Not close enough. Hold up." If he waited long enough, maybe he'd find way to cut through this Gordian knot.

"Damn you," Noel muttered, and then he took all control from Bodie's hands.

Before Bodie could restrain him, Noel was rising up to a firing position and taking his first shot. Bodie saw a spray of blood burst from the first man's chest before he dropped lifeless to the ground.

Noel began to aim at his next target, but all three of the remaining soldiers had turned their rifles on him. Shots rang out and at least one hit Noel. Bodie heard his cousin swear as he went down.

Bodie stopped thinking at all, instinct completely taking over. A comrade was being fired upon; it was his duty to defend him.

Taking in a deep breath and then letting out half of it, Bodie snapped off the rifle's safety, took aim and fired twice. The first two men went down, sprays of blood marking each fall. Which left one soldier remaining: Robbie.

Even at this distance, Bodie could see the young soldier was breathing hard as he swung his rifle across the field, looking for his target. Bodie held his breath and held his fire, willing Robbie to quit, to break, to run back to where he'd come from. Then Robbie aimed his rifle firmly towards the place where Bodie remained hidden. He could see Robbie's body still in concentration, see him deliberately ease his shoulders, see his finger move towards the trigger. 

Bodie fired once more, and Robbie went down. Bodie clamped down on his emotions, not allowing himself to feel sorrow or anger or grief or anything as he stood and hauled Noel up by the scruff of the neck.

"Where are you hit?" he asked.

"Are they dead?" Noel said around clenched teeth, one hand clenched around his bloody arm.

"I bloody shot them, didn't I?" Bodie said angrily. "Now where are you hit?"

"In the arm. Looks worse than it is."

"Well, it looks fucking awful, Noel. You going to be able to travel?"

"Yeah, just watch me."

Bodie didn't wait further; he just kept one hand on Noel's collar and legged it. As they moved back to the observation point, he tried to keep his mind clear, but all he could see was Robbie's face as he was hit by the bullet, the blood exploding from the wound on his side, the way his legs buckled as he collapsed. And Robbie's face kept trans-forming into Doyle's. Doyle as he was when Bodie had found him last year, shot and bleeding on his apartment floor. By force of will, he finally pushed all those images, all that blood, into the same windowless room in his mind where he stored all the other horrors he didn't want to think about, and then nailed the door shut.

Conleth and Clancy were already packing up their bergens when he and Noel reached them.

"Is it done?" Conleth asked.

"Yeah. We got them all. But one of them got Noel first."

"Did you get up to take your shot, you stupid bastard?" Clancy asked, pulling on his bergen and taking hold of Noel's good arm.

"Shut the fuck up," Noel said, his eyes tearing in pain.

"He got up to take his shot," Bodie confirmed. "Now we need to get out of here fast, before someone starts wondering if that was gunfire they heard and they send another patrol to look for those lads back there."

They waited long enough for Clancy to tie a field dressing around Noel's wound so there would be no further blood trail for any pursuers to follow, and then they ran. They followed the escape route Bodie had laid out in preparation for this moment, travelling cross country to Dec's farm. They did the trip in two hours, and it was two hours that Noel made on willpower and stubbornness, his jaw clenched tight with pain.

Dec was waiting at the farm, along with Regan and Liam, when they arrived.

Liam's face went red with anger as he saw the state his brother was in, and he aimed that anger straight at Bodie.

"I told you before that I'd kill you if anything happened to Noel," Liam said, launching himself at Bodie. Bodie took one jarring punch in the face before he dropped his rifle and tried to defend himself. But Liam was infected with a furious strength and Bodie couldn't find the will to fight him, not entirely convinced that he deserved to live after the afternoon's deeds. Liam knocked him to the ground, landing several more crushing blows to Bodie's gut before he wrapped his hands around Bodie's throat and began squeezing the life from him.

It was Noel who saved Bodie after Dec and Conleth had dragged Liam off him, still screaming.

"Stop it, Liam," Noel said, his face grey with shock. "It's not Will's fault. Do you hear me? It wasn't his fault." Noel shook his brother's arm. "He got me out. Shot three members of the patrol and got me out. Do you understand?"

Liam finally stopped fighting against Dec and Conleth, and they let him go. As Bodie lay on the ground, catching his breath and looking for the strength to stand, Liam paced the yard.

"I don't trust him," Liam said, as much to himself as to the men around him. "I don't fuckin' trust him."

"Will's proven himself over and over, Liam," Dec said quietly, putting a calming hand on Liam's shoulder. "He's one of us."

Liam said nothing more, just threw off Dec's hand and ran, roaring off in his car.

"Never mind, lad," Dec said, giving Bodie a hand up from the ground. "He'll come around eventually." 

"No, I don't think he will," Bodie said, dusting the dirt off his clothes and wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth.

* * *

Doyle was in a pub with Murphy when he heard the news.

He hadn't been to a pub in...well, in a long while. Hadn't felt up for it, spending time surrounded by other people having a good time when he spent every waking moment expecting his world to end, and every sleeping moment tormented by dreams he wouldn't wish on the worst villain he'd ever nicked. Murphy had tried to get him out for a while, but he'd always refused. Finally, after Lucas' birthday party—yet another event he hadn't had the heart for—Murphy took him aside and told him he had to start at least pretending to live again. That he'd been the subject of rather a lot of conversation at Lucas' bash, with alcohol-lubricated agents prodding Murphy for the answer to why Doyle had taken Bodie's betrayal so hard. That if he didn't snap out of it, someone besides the two of them might suss out what Bodie was really up to. That the more people who knew that Bodie was on assignment, the more people might give something away to the wrong person. And then Bodie really would end up dead.

So Doyle had agreed and come to the CI5 local for a pint. He'd been pretending that he was a normal bloke with normal worries for nearly an hour when he noticed the headline on the telly behind the bar: "British Patrol Gunned Down in Ireland."

A cold feeling building in his gut, Doyle elbowed Murphy and asked the barman to turn up the sound. The newsreader was droning on about a four-man Army patrol being caught by an ambush in South Armagh. The IRA had claimed responsibility, but no suspects had been caught. Two of the patrol had been killed outright. The other two were in critical condition.

The alcohol in Doyle's stomach was suddenly too much as he was swept by waves of nausea and revulsion. Because he knew what an ambush in Armagh meant. It meant the IRA, it meant blood and death. It meant Bodie was in this op up to his eyeballs now, as if he hadn't been before.

"Christ, Murph," Doyle said, blinking several times to combat the prickling in his eyes. "Christ." He couldn't think what else to say.

"It might not have been him." Murphy tried to sound hopeful, but Doyle knew how thin the act was.

"'Course it fucking was. Ambush like that, who else could it be?" And there, poking through the fog of despondency he'd been walking through for weeks now, was his anger back. He clung to that anger, clung to the way it made him feel alive, the way it burned away the ice encasing him. He clung to the pain that seared him as deadened emotions flared to life. He felt himself begin to double over, but Murphy was there, holding him up by the elbow, keeping him upright by sheer force of will.

"Don't you fold, Doyle. Not here, not in public." Murphy pulled him closer and whispered in his ear. "If there's anyone watching you, they'll know in an instant that you know Bodie's in Armagh. And then he's dead."

"Then get me out of here, Murph," Doyle said through clenched teeth. "Get me out now."

Murph did just that, manhandling him out of the crowded pub, telling the few agents milling about that Doyle just couldn't hold his drink anymore. His arm around Doyle's shoulders, Murphy marched him to his car and deposited Doyle in the passenger seat before taking the driver's seat himself.

"Drive you home, shall I?" Murphy asked.

"No." Doyle shook his head, suddenly sure of where he needed to go, of whom he needed to talk to. "Take me to Cowley's."

"Cowley's?" Murphy's surprise was clear in his voice. "It's nearly gone ten. Even supposing he's still home, he'll have our bollocks for disturbing him at this time of night."

"He's disturbed me enough times. And I've got to talk to the old bastard." He swallowed hard as another wave of nausea passed through him. He didn't think Murphy would enjoy it if he sicked up on his dashboard, no matter the cause. "If anyone knows what's going on, knows if Bodie's involved in that business, it's George bloody Cowley."

* * *

George Cowley was not in a good mood. Bad enough that things had gone so terribly wrong in Ireland, a situation that almost certainly had Bodie firmly at its centre. Worse, the Minister for Defence had caught wind that there was an operative undercover in Armagh. Worse still, it seemed someone in MI5 had revealed the operative in question belonged to CI5 and George Cowley, though at least Bodie's identity and cover were still intact.

It was a horrible mess.

Leaving aside the leak in security that could only have come from MI5, Cowley now had to deal with questions from the Home Secretary, lies spread by an MI5 now in deep damage control mode, and a surfeit of military commanders who wanted Bodie's head served up on a platter, garnish optional.

He'd spent most of the day and all of the evening doing damage control of his own. He'd parlayed with the Home Secretary, placated the Minister for Defence, and deployed subtle pressure against MI5. It would require a lot of work and a lot more favours, but Cowley was damned if he'd leave Bodie facing the full wrath of Her Majesty's Armed Forces when he finally came in from the cold.

At half past ten, Cowley was in his study, putting together a full report for the Home Secretary's consumption and planning his own campaign against the most probable suspect for the security leak in MI5. When his door buzzer rang, he thought it might be his MI5 liaison, or an Army courier delivering more files, or even the Home Secretary himself, come for a private meeting on this bloody mess. Instead, it was 4.5's voice he heard on his security phone.

"It's Doyle. I need to talk to you."

Cowley didn't even bother responding, but buzzed him in and waited at the open door while Doyle, with Murphy in tow, climbed to his first-floor flat. He waved them into the lounge without a word, then followed them in, carefully setting the locks behind him. Once in the lounge, he stood by the mantelpiece, arms crossed, watching as Doyle, sparking anger and anxiety, paced the carpet while Murphy hovered protectively behind him.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" he asked, though he had absolutely no doubt why they were here. If his attention hadn't been consumed by trying to save his partner, he would have anticipated Doyle's appearance on his doorstep.

"Bodie," Doyle said abruptly as if no further explanation was necessary. Nor was it, though Cowley wasn't about to make it that easy for Doyle.

"What about him?"

"Was he there?"

"I assume you're talking about the incident in Ireland."

"Incident. Bloody hell, I bet you'd call World War III an incident. It was a massacre."

"I'd hardly call the shooting of four soldiers a massacre, Doyle," Cowley said dryly.

"Was he _there_?"

"I don't know if Bodie was there. I have no word either way." A good commander knew his men, and Cowley was a good commander. He knew that giving Doyle confirmation that Bodie had likely been involved in the ambush wasn't a good idea. Whichever way Doyle jumped it wouldn't be in a good direction. He might feel guilty by proxy. He might defend his partner blind. Or he just as well might reject Bodie as having crossed one too many lines. If at all possible, Cowley would avoid telling Doyle anything at all.

"That's not the George Cowley I know," Doyle said with deliberate belligerence. "That Cowley would have judged the information available and guessed the likeliest scenario."

"I never guess," Cowley said, knowing he was foolish for letting himself be drawn into this discussion even as he did so. "I calculate."

"Then calculate whether Bodie was on that ambush."

"You don't really want me to do that." Cowley gave Doyle one last out.

"Yes, I do, or why would I have asked?" Doyle was practically shouting.

"All right." Cowley drew himself up to his full height and took a deep breath. "Then my calculation would be that Bodie was not only involved in the ambush, but that he planned it. The strategy they used was pure SAS, more sophisticated than the usual IRA set-up." He tried to stay aloof from the words, but Cowley found himself feeling the same horror he'd experienced when he'd received first word of the ambush this afternoon, when he'd got the reports and seen the pictures of the location the IRA gunmen had shot from, of the wounded men, and of the dead, and known absolutely that Bodie must be behind it.

And he wasn't the only one feeling the horror. Across from him, Doyle turned a ghastly grey and it seemed as though the fire within him had not only been banked, but extinguished entirely.

"Murphy," Cowley said, looking towards his drinks cabinet. Murphy was a smart lad and caught on immediately. He poured a good three fingers of scotch—from the best bottle, Cowley noted—and placed it in Doyle's nerveless grip.

"Drink that down, Ray," Murphy said. 

Doyle downed the scotch in two long swallows and then stood for several seconds, the glass clutched tightly in his hands. After several long moments, Doyle finally looked up at him.

"Sorry, sir. It's just..." Doyle trailed off, unable to continue. Not that he had to. Cowley knew what Doyle must be going through, and one look at Murphy told him that 6.2 understood at least some of it as well. Cowley nodded in response and let Doyle speak in his own time.

"Is he alive, at least?" Doyle finally said. "Can you tell me that?" Doyle's eyes betrayed a desperation that Cowley had only ever seen on the few occasions when Bodie had been injured or captured. And that reminded him of Bodie's confession of what the two men meant to each other and his own reluctant promise to deliver Bodie's final message if necessary. He wanted to reassure Doyle, but he also had too much respect for 4.5 to lie to him.

"He was alive a week ago. That's the last time I received a report from him."

"A week?"

"That's not unusual in this kind of an operation. You know that."

Doyle nodded reluctantly. "But what about today? Was he hurt today?"

"Not that we know," Cowley said, prevarication suddenly seeming the best, the only, option. But Doyle was sharp enough to sense a half-truth, and Cowley saw his neck and shoulders tense.

"What _do_ you know?"

"Nothing to be concerned about."

"You know something, or you wouldn't be trying to hide it." Doyle looked at him, the horror in his eyes growing as Cowley watched. The truth would hurt, but better that than what his imagination would provide.

"We know that three of the soldiers managed to fire their weapons before they went down. And we know that there was blood found at the location the IRA shooters attacked from."

"What was the blood type?"

"We only have preliminary results."

"What was it?" Doyle's voice was a low, insistent growl.

"A positive."

"Bodie's type."

"It's a common enough blood type. The commonest. One Bodie likely shares with his cousins."

"But it could have been Bodie. He could have been shot."

"Yes." Cowley nodded once, keeping a careful eye on Doyle. 

Doyle's eyes were focused on a landscape of a Scottish glen on the wall opposite him, but Cowley could tell that he was barely aware of his surroundings. Cowley looked hard at Doyle, stripped away any emotion, any sympathy he felt, and evaluated his condition. He was still lean, still gaunt, with bruises under his eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights. He hadn't given 4.5 and 6.2 any challenging assignments, but now he wondered at the wisdom of keeping 4.5 operational at all. Of leaving him in London...

"Doyle, if you'd like, there's a safe house we have in Devon. It's comfortable enough and it's not being used at present. You could stay there until this is all over."

But Doyle was shaking his head before Cowley had even finished.

"No. Thank you, sir, but no." Doyle shook his head slowly and deliberately. "You said before that this was about a bomb being planned for London."

"I did, Doyle." He looked sharply at Murphy. "And that information does not leave this room, 6.2."

"Then if Bodie's alive, and if his cover isn't blown, he's going to end up here eventually. If I can't help Bodie in Ireland, the least I can do is be in London when he comes back. And I can't do that if you've packed me off to Devon."

"You also can't do that if you don't look after yourself."

"I'm all right..."

"From the looks of you, you're far from it, Doyle. You look readier for the knacker's yard than a grade seven call-out. The shape you're in now, you won't be considered for the team when Bodie calls in the bomb information."

"Try and keep me away." Gratifyingly, Doyle showed some of his old spark.

"Look after yourself and I won't have to." Cowley took the glass out of Doyle's grasp and placed it carefully on the mantel. "Now, if there's nothing else I can do for you gentlemen, I have a report to write to the Home Secretary before I can get some sleep myself."

"There's just one thing, sir." Doyle grabbed at his wrist and Cowley nearly pulled back, surprised not just at the contact but at the heat Doyle was radiating. "Promise me I'll be informed when there's a call-out for Bodie. Even if you don't think I'm fit—and I will be—even then, make sure I'm told."

"I'll call you myself, Doyle."

Doyle gave a grimly satisfied nod and then allowed himself to be ushered out. As Cowley set the locks after the two men, he hoped that this operation came to a successful end soon. Before more blood was shed and before he had to forcibly pack Ray Doyle off to Devon, for his own good and the good of CI5.

* * *

That evening found all the members of the brigade, except the still missing Liam, taking part in a proper piss-up. They hadn't stayed at Dec's farm very long. He was a known face to the British authorities and it was a sure bet that they'd come calling after the ambush. And sooner rather than later.

So, they'd made their way in a ragged caravan of three cars to a cottage Dec kept deep in the countryside. Half the brigade had never set foot in the place before, it was such a well-kept secret. 

Though he would have been better off resting somewhere quietly, Noel joined the caravan, his arm stitched and bandaged by a doctor friend of Dec's who was sympathetic to the Republican cause. Once the bottles had been opened, it hadn't taken him long to achieve a blissful state, pleasantly floating on an ill-advised cocktail of whisky and painkillers.

As the hero of the hour, Bodie did his best to act as hale and hearty as the rest of them. He accepted the handshakes and back slaps, proposed toasts, and generally acted like a man who was well pleased with himself.

Inside, however, his gut was churning. He'd been in the business of holding other people's lives in his hands so long, he hadn't thought anything could shake him. But this afternoon's events had done exactly that, and badly. He'd had to face down friends before, Jimmy Keller and Barry Martin among them, but only after they'd already betrayed his loyalty and his course had been clear. Never before had he been asked to pull the trigger on someone who was both friend and ally. He kept wondering what he would have done if it had been Doyle on that patrol. No matter the circumstances and no matter his duty, he could never have shot the irritating golly. Not on his worst day. He would have taken a bullet himself rather than see Doyle shot again. And that made him feel even worse about shooting Robbie. Swallowing yet another large whiskey pressed into his hand by an admiring Regan, Bodie speculated about what Cowley would have done in the same circumstances, and what the Cow would have to say about Bodie's actions, assuming he survived the assignment and made it back to London and the bosom of CI5.

When one of Dec's spotters arrived with the news that two of the soldiers in the patrol were dead, with the other two not expected to live, a cheer went up in the room and Bodie doubled his drinks consumption. He knew crawling into a bottle was only be a temporary solution, but right now it was the only solution he had.

It was well into the early hours of the next morning when the party wound down. By that time Bodie was utterly legless and nearly unconscious. He was only vaguely aware when someone packed him into the backseat of a car and drove him over roads suddenly far too bumpy for his head and stomach, and he never quite knew how he ended up in Mo's front yard, standing unsteadily as the world wavered around him.

He turned and began walking deliberately up the fifty feet to Mo's front door. He didn't make it very far. He'd gone barely a half dozen steps when his stomach violently heaved, finally rebelling against the drink he'd thrown down his neck all night. In an instant he was on his knees, throwing up in Mo's withered, frozen flower bed, his body ridding itself of the booze as his mind wanted to rid itself of knowledge of the day's deeds.

He stayed in that position long past the time when there was anything left in his stomach, not even a trickle of foul-tasting bile. But he couldn't stop the convulsions that ripped through him, making him shake worse than he'd done at any other time, save perhaps the day that a doomed young girl had shot Ray.

That day, he'd stood in the observation gallery of the surgical theatre, maintaining a façade of self-control that had cost him dearly, and watching as the medical team took Ray apart and tried to put him back together. But after they'd sewn Ray up and wheeled him out of the theatre, Bodie had escaped from Cowley's attention while the Old Man was busy yelling at yet another underling on the phone. He'd locked himself in an empty supply room and allowed himself exactly five minutes to fall apart. For that five minutes, he'd let his fears shudder through him until he'd threatened to crumble, until all that practice at not showing his feelings had started to crack. Five minutes to contemplate the hellish desolation his life would be without Ray Doyle. Five minutes, and then he'd pulled himself back together, put on his working face, and emerged ready to track down Ray's would-be assassin, his own needs meshing conveniently with Cowley's orders.

Ray had lived. And realizing how much he loved the irritating sod in theory, Bodie had set out, slowly, to prove it in fact. Six months they'd been together, before Cowley had sent him off on this bastard assignment. The best six months of Bodie's life. Six months he wouldn't surrender for anything.

This day, however...this day he wasn't sure how to go on. This time, he was the one who'd inflicted death and pain, who'd left someone's friend, someone's son, someone's lover bleeding in the bracken. He was the one who'd left two good men lifeless on Irish soil that had already soaked up too much blood.

He was so wrapped up in a fog of drink and nausea and cold and suffering that he started in surprise when a hand was laid lightly on his back.

"Ray?" he said.

"There's no Ray here, Will. It's Maureen." Mo's voice was soft, and her hand gently rubbed his back as if he were a child in need of comforting. "You need to come in."

It was the gentleness that undid him. His defences already lowered, gentleness was the one thing he couldn't bear. He broke down, taking deep, laboured breaths of cold night air as he sobbed, dry-eyed, in his cousin's arms.

* * *

Bodie awoke the next morning far earlier than he should have. His eyes felt swollen, his head throbbed, and his stomach threatened to heave with each breath he took.

Worst of all, the memory of the previous day's events were clear and vivid and all too present, from the ambush to his drunken breakdown in Mo's arms. As he sat up, he wished for once that he suffered from alcohol-induced amnesia.

Grabbing a change of clothes, he made his way to the bathroom. He avoided the mirror, not wanting to see the ravages of the previous day written on his face, and stood in the shower until the hot water ran out, which wasn't nearly long enough.

Only when he was dried off and dressed did he feel brave enough to look at his reflection. The man who stared back at him from the steamy mirror had haunted eyes and a mouth that seemed incapable of smiling. 

"What're you looking at, you stupid bastard?" he said to his reflection, and then headed downstairs.

It was only once he was halfway down the stairs that he realized he couldn't hear any of the usual sounds that Mo made in the mornings. There was no clattering of pans, no whistle of the teakettle, no sounds of crockery being set on the table. He tensed, wondering what was wrong. It crossed his mind that he should probably go retrieve his gun, just in case there was something seriously wrong, but he couldn't find it in him to care enough to protect himself. If a Proddy paramilitary or a British soldier was going to gun him down in Mo's kitchen, so be it.

He crossed the threshold into the kitchen and found neither an Ulster supporter nor a soldier waiting for him. What he found was worse: Mo sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the headline of the morning paper with eyes gone dead and cold.

He moved awkwardly, bumping into the counter with a slight noise and making Mo start.

"Mo, are you okay?" He had to ask even though it was clear that she wasn't.

Mo balled up the front page in her hand so that Bodie could still see the words "Murders" and "Shock" and shook it at him. 

"Was this you, Will? Is this why you were in such a state last night?"

"You don't get the morning paper."

"Mr. Doherty brought it round first thing. He thought I should know what had happened. The soldiers are right bastards after something like this. He wanted to make sure I kept my head down. Was it you?" She stared at him with such intensity that Bodie had to look away.

"I can't say, Mo. You know that."

"Fuck," Mo said, the single, brutal, unexpected syllable making Bodie start.

"I'm sorry," he said, knowing it wasn't nearly enough.

"I thought you were different, but you're just like Noel and Liam. Worse, even. They don't seem to know any better."

"Maybe."

Mo said nothing else, but she quickly stood and threw the paper to the floor. She stood staring at Bodie with such misery in her eyes that he finally had to look away. Finally, she looked down herself and drew a deep, shuddering sigh.

"I thought I wouldn't mind it, but I can't have you here any more Will. I won't have a killer under my roof. Not in Jilly's room. Not after..." Mo put her hand to her mouth and her face convulsed with an obvious effort not to cry.

"Mo, I..."

Mo put her free hand up to stop him, swallowed once, and then straightened her shoulders.

"You can't say anything to fix it, so don't try. I can't be around you. Not now."

"But..."

"I'm going over to Lorna's." Mo gave him no time at all to speak. "I'll be back in two hours. I want you gone by then."

Keeping her eyes averted, Mo swept by him and out the front door. Bodie heard her start up Bessie out front and gun the engine as she drove away.

He stood there, frozen, until he couldn't hear her car anymore, then he picked up the newspaper from floor and straightened it out on the kitchen table with shaking hands. "Armagh Murders Cause Shock" screamed the headline, and below was a picture of two broken bodies covered by ground sheets and surrounded by grim-faced British soldiers. He scanned the story and found that two of the soldiers were still living, but no names had been released as yet. Bodie didn't believe in prayer, but he threw up a request to the vengeful God of his Catholic childhood to keep an eye on Private Robert Stapleton.

He sat there for several long minutes, unable to think or act. Part of him wanted to call Cowley from Mo's phone, bugged though it no doubt was, ask him to get him out of this fucking country, and pray that the Army arrived to pull him out before Dec and the others showed up on his doorstep with Armalites blazing. But then he remembered the pictures that Cowley had shown him, and MI5's suspicion that Dec and his merry band were about to take their fight to London, and he knew he had to stay.

But if he had to be in Armagh, and he couldn't live with Mo, he wasn't sure what to do. He couldn't call Dec or Noel. Dec was staying at the cottage until things cooled down again, and he was keeping Noel with him, and the cottage had no phone. Regan was a good lad, but he lived with his mum. And though he got on well enough with Clancy and Conleth, he didn't think he could impose on them by asking for a place to kip. Which left one possible option, and not one he was keen on using. 

But in the end, there was no other choice. So he made his way to the lounge, picked up the phone and called the only other person who might be willing to put him up, for the good of the Republican cause if for no other reason. That unpleasant task done, he threw his meagre belongings into his bergen, locked the door behind him, and put his key through the letter slot. Then he sat on the front step to wait. 

 

Liam arrived half an hour later, clattering up the road in his clapped-out van. Bodie threw his bergen in the back, he and Liam put his bike in after it, and then he got into the passenger seat. Neither of them spoke a word.

The drive to the farm where Liam and Noel lived was completed in a cold silence. Bodie thought he might have been able to bear it better if Liam had threatened to kill him a few times. At least that would have been comfortingly familiar. Instead, Liam drove with his eyes firmly directed on the road, as if by ignoring him he could erase Bodie's existence.

When they arrived at the farm, Liam got out of the van and slammed the door behind him. Bodie followed, reluctantly, bergen slung over his shoulder. When they reached the farmhouse door, Liam finally turned and looked at him, the hatred clearly visible in his eyes.

"I couldn't believe it yesterday, but I know you saved Noel. I appreciate that."

"I–"

"Let me finish," Liam said, interrupting anything Bodie could have said. "I appreciate it, but I still don't trust you. And I'll be keeping an eye on you. You do anything dodgy, and you'll wish the British forces had got hold of you before you crossed the Irish Sea. Understood?"

"Yeah," Bodie said. "Understood."

"Good." Liam opened the door. "Now I'll show you where you're sleeping."

* * *

The sun hadn't yet broken the horizon when Doyle woke, the grey light of pre-dawn just sufficient to see his dresser, the wardrobe across the room, and the pile of clothes he'd stepped out of last night and discarded in the corner.

He sat up and blinked at his alarm clock, wishing for at least one morning when he didn't wake up long before its buzzing could break into his unquiet dreams. But at least he was now sleeping for more than an hour at a time, and through strength of will rather than through benefit of alcohol or pills. Cowley's lecture had done its work. He'd be fucked if he'd let Cowley keep him away when Bodie needed him most. If that meant looking after himself, so be it.

He was eating regularly, if still sparingly, resting when he could, and ignoring the dreams when they came. And they always came. He didn't expect they'd disappear until Bodie was home and safe. If that didn't happen, well, then he suspected he'd never be rid of them. And then he'd be ready for Cowley to pack him off to Devon, out of sight and out of mind.

He shut off the alarm clock, swung his legs out of bed, and got on with the day, habit carrying him through. He showered. He pulled on clothes that were mostly clean. He put the kettle on. He made toast and ate some of it. He retrieved the newspaper from the front step.

He'd always read the paper: the Guardian, much to Bodie's disgust. You had to stay on top of current events in Cowley's mob; you never knew what bit of information was going to be important, was going to save your arse when you were out in the field. But ever since the ambush, it had become more than part of his routine; it had become a sacred ritual.

He'd pored over every article examining the ambush in Armagh, looking for he wasn't sure what. Some sign of Bodie's hand in things, perhaps? Proof that his partner existed beyond his memories and his nightmares? Whatever it was he was searching for, he'd read too much by far about the two dead soldiers—interviews with their mothers, their girlfriends, their grammar school teachers— too much by far about the mess in Armagh. He'd read about the investigation, as much as got through the usual security D notices, anyway. Read every scrap of information he could find, even as the days passed and the stories got smaller and moved further back in the paper.

On the fourth day after the ambush, he'd read about the third soldier dying of his wounds, and been sickened by the thought of one more senseless death, even as he was relieved that yet again death had passed Bodie over. That article had been on page ten of the paper, a decent-sized piece, complete with a grainy photograph of the soldier, fresh-faced and smiling in his dress uniform. 

This morning, he made it almost to the end, the last page but one, before he found an article on Armagh. A little over a week on, and news of Cowley's "incident" had been reduced to a sidebar in the bottom corner. "Armagh Victim Dies" read the perfunctory headline. Even reading carefully, Doyle managed to finish the article describing the short life and awful death of Private Robert Stapleton in less than a minute. A minute to define a life; it didn't seem decent.

Doyle read the article three more times, committing to memory anything that seemed important. And then he gave thanks to whatever power might be listening that today had not been the day to bring news of the death of a disgraced CI5 agent who'd defected to the IRA. Not that he believed in the God of the C of E. But he wasn't quite the atheist that Bodie claimed to be and he couldn't help but hope that there was something out there that might take an interest in the miserable affairs of the human race.

He studiously ignored the pricking of his conscience, the voice that told him how wrong it was to be thankful for Bodie's life when a man he'd probably shot was dead. Just as he ignored the voice that told him that he didn't know Bodie _was_ still alive, not really. It was only that no body had been discovered.

The rest of the day was monotonous in its ordinariness. Murphy picked him up at the usual time, and Doyle resolutely did not think about how much he'd rather it was Bodie at his door, leaning on the bell and complaining about his choice in breakfast cereal. They stopped off at headquarters, then relieved Ruth and Jax at an obbo on the embassy of a minor African nation, where Doyle did not wonder if it was a country Bodie had ever been to, and if he'd still be welcome there if he went back. They returned to headquarters at the end of their shift and wrote up their reports on the absolutely nothing they'd observed at the embassy, and Doyle stamped down on all thoughts of how Bodie would laboriously pick his way around the typewriter keyboard, biting his lip and swearing when he hit the wrong key. Murphy dragged him to the pub, where Doyle bought a round and deliberately didn't notice how no one talked anymore about any of the epic piss-ups Bodie had organized. Murphy dropped him at home, where he brushed his teeth, threw some water on his face, and collapsed into bed to wait for sleep to come.

This was the only time—lying in bed, covers pulled up to his chest—that he allowed himself to think about Bodie. Not about what Bodie might be doing now—that would only invite the nightmares in through the front door—but about what he had done in the past. How he'd sprawled in this bed, bollock naked, a satisfied grin on his face. How he'd held Doyle, arms wrapped around him, enfolding him in a protective embrace. How he'd used his tongue and teeth on Doyle's chin, his shoulder, his nipples. His cock. How he'd made Doyle come, with hands, with mouth, with his cock impaling Doyle's arse or Doyle's cock impaling his.

Some nights, Doyle would close his eyes and pretend his hand was Bodie's, stroking his lips, his belly, his flank, his cock, making him moan and pant, coiling his desire tightly, too tightly, until he came, arching and gasping. Some nights he did, but not most. Because when it was all over, the other side of the bed was still cold and he was still alone, still needing, still wanting. The memory of what they'd had, still had, made the separation sharper.

So, this night, he did none of that, only turned on his side, face into the pillow, eyes tightly closed, waiting for sleep to claim him and hoping he could do battle against any nightmares that chose to test him in his sleep.

* * *

For Bodie, the following week was a time of increased isolation. The weather was edging ever closer to winter, with rain changing into sleet more often than not, but he kept on running in the mornings, more because he didn't know what else to do with himself. Being on Liam's farm, he was grateful at least that he didn't have to look at the wall where he'd met Robbie each morning, didn't have to pass by the shed they'd spent so much time in. He helped Liam out on the farm as much as he could. Liam always found the absolute worst job for him to do, usually involving the pigs and as much mud and shit as could be found. Neither of them talked to the other more than was absolutely necessary.

By mutual agreement, they didn't meet with the rest of the brigade. Even when running, Bodie himself didn't leave the borders of the farm, not wanting to be stopped at one of the roadblocks that the Army was throwing up with increased frequency. 

With nothing to do but farm chores, and contact with no one but Liam, Bodie found himself retreating into the mental fortress he hadn't felt the need for in years. He'd first built it for himself as a means of escaping from his father's rages. He'd shored up the stronghold in Africa, made it a place to escape from the casual horrors he'd encountered far too often on that continent. He'd added another annex to it when he'd served in Ireland. And now he was reopening the rooms, dusting off the furniture. If he retreated there, he didn't have to consider how much he missed Mo or Robbie, or the company of Noel and Dec. He didn't have to think about Liam's taciturn hostility.

And most of all, the fortress was a place he could hide from thoughts of Doyle. Before, thinking about Doyle had comforted him; now he reckoned it'd tear him apart. He'd always played the realist to Doyle's tortured idealist, but he wasn't sure even his steady pragmatism could allow him to justify what he'd done on the ambush. And if he couldn't reconcile himself to it, what would Doyle's reaction be? Understanding? Hatred? Would he break off their partner-ship? Kill their relationship? Bodie could see Doyle doing all of that and more, and he couldn't allow himself to think of any of it. Not if he didn't want to lose all will to live.

As another survival tactic, he'd been avoiding all news. He didn't turn on the telly and wouldn't look at the papers Liam brought back from Crossmaglen. He didn't want to know what was going on in the outside world, and he'd decided he didn't want to know if Robbie was alive or dead, not when there was nothing he could do about it.

After a week, things got easier. Noel returned from his enforced exile, his arm nearly healed and as friendly towards Bodie as he'd been since their weapons run. A few days later, when word came down that the soldiers had stopped actively looking for the men who'd laid the ambush, Dec also returned. With their leader back, the brigade fell into their usual routine of training and strategizing in the afternoons. And now Bodie found himself involved more in the planning of campaigns. Dec asked his opinion more and the others, even Liam, paid attention when he spoke. If he'd truly been committed to the Republican cause, Bodie knew he could have risen through the ranks of the IRA and turned South Armagh into even more of a killing ground than it already was. As it was, he memorized as much as he could about the brigade and their plans, mentally preparing a report that he had no way of delivering to Cowley. Not until he returned to London.

Near the end of the month, Dec asked Bodie to train the brigade in fighting in an urban setting. So they changed the barn and other outbuildings of the farm into a make-believe city and Bodie took them through their paces.

And then, late one December afternoon, just as the light was beginning to bleed from the steel-grey sky, Dec and Conleth asked to see him in the farmhouse. 

They sat around the kitchen table and Dec poured them each a generous helping of whiskey.

"Sláinte," Dec said, raising his glass.

"Cheers," Bodie said before draining his own. He looked up to see both Dec and Conleth looking at him with wide smiles.

"What?"

"We've got a bit of a job we thought you might be interested in," Conleth said.

"Oh, yeah?" Bodie tried not to appear too eager. "And what's that?"

"How would you like to set a bomb in the heart of London?" Dec asked, leaning forward.

"I'd love to," Bodie said with his best predator's grin.

Now, he thought. Now it really begins. And soon enough it'll be all over, one way or another.


	3. Winter

Bodie blew on his fingers, hoping to warm them up slightly, then stretched out a hand to the man beside him.

"Pass us another bolt, will you?" he said. Noel obliged and Bodie fastened it in place with numbed fingers, taking extra care not to jar anything, not to let metal scrape on metal, not to let anything spark.

"One more," Noel said, looking at their handiwork with a satisfied expression. "One more and we're done."

"That we are," Bodie said, sitting back on his heels and looking around him with a horrified sense of accomplishment, the mist from their breath swirling around them only to disappear and form a fog on the wind-screen at the front.

You'd never know to look at it, Bodie thought, that Liam's clapped-out old van was now a mobile bomb.

The brigade had spent the last two weeks completing the transformation. Conleth had organized grinding hundreds of pounds of fertiliser in a barley crusher, then mixed the resulting fine powder with icing sugar. The mix of such odd ingredients produced a surprisingly powerful explosive. With the rest of the brigade working on the explosive, Bodie and Noel had got the van set. They'd tuned up the engine ‘til it was running better than it had for years so they'd be certain it wouldn't break down when they needed it most. Then they'd taken apart all the panels on the inside. Conleth and Clancy had packed the walls, roof, and floor with as much explosive as it could bear, which turned out to be quite a lot. Enough to flatten a city block, Dec had estimated, and more than enough to accomplish their goal. Not that Bodie knew exactly what that goal was as yet. He knew the bomb was destined for London, but no one knew exactly what their target was. And so Bodie had to play out his hand until he knew enough to make the risk of contacting Cowley worthwhile.

He scratched his chin before tackling the last screw.

"Not used to it yet?" Noel asked.

"It's driving me ‘round the twist," Bodie said, scratching harder. "I've never grown a beard before, and now I know why."

"Serves you right. Being half-English and all."

"I didn't ask Dec for the privilege of taking the bloody van on the ferry."

"No, but you're the logical one to do it. They'll be less likely to search an Englishman with an English registered van. And they'll be less likely to recognize you with the beard."

"No joke, there." Looking in the mirror Bodie barely recognized himself, the beard coming in thick and dark. He wondered if even Doyle would know who he was at the moment.

The beard wasn't the only change in his appearance. Though the return of Noel and Dec had lessened his sense of isolation, he still retreated inside himself more often than he'd done in years. When he looked in the mirror, he could see the increased wariness in his eyes. He hoped that none of the others had noticed.

"Has Dec told you where this is going?" Noel asked, startling Bodie out of his thoughts.

"Not a word. He says the decision is coming from Belfast and we're all going to have to wait to find out."

"Bugger Belfast," Noel said. "Why won't they let us make our own decisions?"

"That's not how the Army works, whether it's Republican or British. The higher ups send down the orders, and sods like us have to carry them out."

"And they'll give us an explanation if they feel like it." Noel finished tightening another bolt in the panel. "It's a load of shite, Will."

"That it is." Bodie tightened the bolt one last time and then looked around again. "Is that really the last one?"

"Yes, thank Christ. And none too soon. My knees are killing me from crawling around the van all afternoon. And it's fucking freezing in here."

"Then let's get inside where it's warm."

They crawled out of the back of the van and closed its doors. Carefully. Conleth hadn't yet installed the detonator, but Bodie didn't want to take any chances of setting off the explosives. There were already too many ways he could die in this country; he didn't want to meet his end by accident. It would be too embarrassing. And Doyle would likely chase him down to the other place to give him a bollocking for dying stupidly. If he ever found out what happened, that is. He was struck yet again by the thought that no one, apart from the men he'd been working with and against these last few months, knew where he was. If he vanished from the face of the earth tomorrow, Doyle would never know what had happened to him. Which, in his darker hours, Bodie almost thought might be best. Better he not know what happened to him than he hate Bodie for the evil he'd done in this country, even if it was evil committed under Cowley's orders.

Bodie and Noel were still in the yard, brushing the dust of the van off their clothes and stamping their feet to keep warm in the crisp winter air, when Dec found them.

"You two finished?"

"Yeah," Bodie said. "We were just wondering if we have a target for our handiwork yet." He nodded in the direction of the van.

"No target yet, but we have a time."

"When?" Noel sparked up, clearly interested now that things were moving forward.

"We leave tomorrow. The bomb will be set in three days, on Friday. A week before Christmas. A nice present for Whitehall."

"About bloody time," Noel said.

"Noel, we'll be taking the morning ferry from Belfast out with the other lads. Will, you'll follow in the van on the overnight ferry."

"And where will I be following to, if we don't have a target?" Bodie asked.

"Some of our lads have rented a warehouse in London where we can store the van and keep our heads down." Dec gave the address, on Narrow Street, near Limehouse basin, and more than ever, Bodie could see the end of this bloody assignment. Get Cowley the warehouse location and he could do a lot. He could put an obbo on it, track who came in and out. He could find whoever had rented the warehouse, and who their contacts were. He could track the bomb when it came and make sure it never reached its target.

For almost the first time since the ambush, Bodie allowed himself a moment's regret that Robbie could no longer send reports to Cowley, even as he stopped himself from wondering if the lad had survived the attack. He was still avoiding newspapers, the radio, the telly. He'd told Dec he didn't want to be distracted from their next mission and didn't want to dwell on their last one. If Dec had been at all suspicious, he hadn't let on.

"I know the area," Bodie said, hoping none of the turmoil he felt was audible in his voice. "It's a good one for us."

"Glad we have your expert approval," Dec said with a wink. "Now come into the house, the pair of you. We'll all have a drop of whiskey and a bit of tea and make an early night of it. Noel, you'll need to be here by six tomorrow morning if we're to make it to Belfast in time. And Will, I want you well rested too. You'll need to be especially careful when you're driving."

"No pranging the van," Noel said smiling.

"Not unless I want to end with a bang," Bodie said, wondering what kind of a crater the bomb would make if he was rear-ended on the M1, and deciding not to think about it after all. 

After their meal and a few toasts for luck, the brigade dispersed, everyone going to their own homes. Bodie followed Noel and Liam on his bike, concentrating on the running lights of Noel's battered Ford. Once in the yard, Bodie was reluctant to go in. He stayed outside in the cold and fussed with the bike. It had been running rough the last few days and he thought the spark plugs might need replacing. He knew it was a stupid thing to be doing. After tomorrow he'd never see this bike again. But it was a welcome way to keep him from thinking about tomorrow's events.

Finally, Noel came out to see what was keeping him.

"You ever coming inside or are you going to sleep with the poxy bike?"

"I'm coming," Bodie said, wiping his hands on a rag and and throwing it down.

"Will," Noel said as he neared the door. "Are you scared?"

Bodie started, remembering another time when he and Doyle had asked that same question of each other. And this time he gave the same answer.

"'Course I'm scared," he said, keeping his voice matter-of-fact even as he admitted to this weakness.

"I'm not scared," Noel said. "I'm looking forward to it." Noel gave him a wide smile that showed absolutely no doubt, no fear, and no hint of hesitation. Noel might have become his friend in the last few weeks, might have become someone he enjoyed talking with, but Bodie was suddenly assaulted by a firm conviction that Noel, and the rest of the brigade, absolutely and utterly needed to be stopped.

"Then you're a bloody fool," Bodie said, and pushed past Noel into the warmth of the farmhouse.

* * *

The next morning, Bodie got up before dawn to drive Noel and Liam to Dec's and to see the rest of the brigade off. He wished them luck, received their good wishes in return, and waved as he watched their taillights disappear down the road. Then, twirling his keys around his index finger, he got back in Noel's Cortina and returned to the farmhouse.

He spent the day doing mindless tasks to keep his hands busy: slopping Liam's damned pigs; washing up the many days worth of dishes that had built up in the sink. 

At six in the evening, he returned to Dec's place, the yard looking surprisingly desolate with no lights on in the house and no human voices to be heard for miles. He locked up the Cortina, pulled the van keys from his pocket, took a deep breath, and began the drive to Belfast. 

As he drove, he made his plans. On Irish soil, he'd make sure he looked like a loyal IRA volunteer. He would take the back roads, avoid any checkpoints, and drive as cautiously as his nature allowed. But once he landed on English soil, once he was on the dock in Birkenhead, he'd give Cowley a bell, give him the warehouse location, and begin the final stage of the op. And none too fucking soon.

Bodie arrived in Belfast nearly two hours early for the ferry. He parked the van, hoping it was ordinary enough not to attract the attention of the Army or the RUC, and went to find a warm café. There was a dilapidated but pleasant place around the corner, and he spent an hour there, consuming cups of hot tea and a plate of bangers and mash. Needing distraction, he struck up a conversation with the middle-aged waitress, and found her sense of humour was as dark as his own. They spent the hour trying to top each other's bad jokes, as the cook groaned and begged Bodie not to encourage her.

At nine, he checked his watch, bade his new friends goodbye, and made his way to the ferry docks.

The ferry left on time, at 22.00. Bodie left the van securely locked up and found a seat to doze on during the crossing. Jacket wadded up under his head, he slept as much as he could, until a dream of Doyle finding the van as it was set to explode disturbed his sleep. He woke with the feel of flames on his skin and the taste of ash in his mouth, and knew he couldn't sleep again ‘til this was all over and done with.

For the next hour, he wandered the ferry among sleeping passengers, nodding at the odd crewmember he encountered. He started to let himself believe that this bastard assignment was going to end well, allowed himself to think that he was going to come out of it if not unscathed, then alive. He could be shut of Noel and Liam and Dec and the IRA. Perhaps he'd ask Cowley's permission to call Doyle from the dock. He allowed himself a small smile, thinking about the sound of Doyle's voice, raspy with sleep.

Just before six, the sky still velvet black, he saw the lights of Liverpool on the horizon. It came to him that he hadn't been back to the city of his birth since he was 16 and still working cargo runs between England and Africa. He hadn't wanted to return here, had made sure that Cowley knew not to send him here, his grandmother's death taking away the only good memories he'd had of this place, leaving only the hatred he bore for his father. He wondered if his father's death would allow him to rediscover Liverpool. If he lived through the next few days, and if Doyle could be convinced to make the drive north with him, maybe he'd visit the dirty old town again. Maybe...

The ferry made its way up the Mersey, docked at the Birkenhead pier, and disgorged its cargo of cars, vans, and passengers, Bodie among them. He was just about to pull out of the car park when a flash of movement caught his eye. He turned and found Noel waving from the side of the road, a great grin on his face.

Bodie felt his blood freeze, even as he pasted on a smile of his own and pulled the van over to the pavement where Noel waited for him. Fucking bastard, he thought. He'd been so close and now here was Noel, bollocking up everything. Bodie glanced around, wondering if he could take out Noel here, knock him out, truss him up, and make his call to Cowley. Not that he let any of those calculations travel to his face.

Noel clambered into the passenger's seat.

"What are you doing here?" Bodie tried not to sound resentful.

"Waiting for you." 

"Didn't trust me to do the job on my own?"

"Don't be like that," Noel said and clapped him on the shoulder. "We just thought you might like some company."

"We?"

"Dec and me," Noel said as he settled into the van. "It was mostly Dec's idea. Besides keeping you company, he wants me to call in every hour. To make sure everything's going smoothly."

And just like that, all Bodie's plans for getting rid of Noel evaporated. Because if Dec didn't get those calls from Noel, this would all have been for nothing. Bodie could offer Cowley the van and Noel, but Dec and the others would disappear good and proper.

Fuck. 

"We'll just have to make sure it all goes smoothly then, won't we?" Bodie did his best to sound friendly as he pulled out into traffic, even as he suppressed the desire to throttle Noel where he sat and dump his body in the Mersey.

He was glad for the driving, since it meant he could concentrate on that while Noel talked, chattering about his own ferry crossing, and the stunning Irish girl he'd seen on the boat, and how the Brits were going to pay, and what kind of a place was London, anyway? Bodie simply smiled when Noel told a joke, nodded when he needed to, and gave sparing answers when questioned, all the while feeling an unbearable tension form in his shoulders, his hands, his gut.

As Noel talked, Bodie drove through the streets of the now waking city, surprised at what had changed since he was a teenager, and what hadn't. He was glad enough to get on the motorway and put his past behind him. 

They drove through to Birmingham, getting caught in the snarl of morning rush hour traffic there, and then hit the M6. Every hour they'd stop, at a petrol station, at a Little Chef, wherever they could find a phone, and Noel would call Dec.

At one Little Chef, halfway between Birmingham and London, they stopped for breakfast. While Noel had a cup of tea, Bodie got a cup of coffee and a bacon sarnie and wished that Doyle was there to chide him for his poor eating habits. Noel finished his tea, made his call to Dec, and then went to the toilet. For the two minutes he was gone, Bodie stared at the pay phone, wondering if he could make his own call to Cowley before Noel came back. But he knew it was a stupid idea, and he didn't even try. There was too much chance that Noel would see him, would discover his treason to the Republican cause, would find a way to blow the van even without a detonator, and bring fire and destruction to a car park full of decent working people who didn't deserve the death Bodie had driven into their midst.

Instead, he got back into the van with Noel, pulled onto the motorway, and concentrated on his driving as Noel nattered on. He made sure he was going neither too fast nor too slow, and that other drivers didn't get too close to the van. The traffic on the M1 began to back up at Watford, making Bodie sigh as he downshifted and prepared to enter London.

He'd been too long in the country. As he got closer to its centre, London seemed more crowded than he remembered, the streets swarming with cars that spewed exhaust and people that threatened to run in front of the van at every junction. As they passed Regent's Park, Bodie toyed with nipping up north for a drive past Doyle's Camden flat, but he knew that was madness even as the thought was born. No use in raising Noel's suspicions. Not when it was late afternoon on a Thursday, with no chance Doyle would be home. No, he'd go straight to the warehouse, trust to fate that this would all end better than he feared, and that he'd see Doyle soon enough.

They passed Euston, then the Angel, drawing closer to the East End and into a maze of warehouses and old factories. He couldn't help but smile when Noel's non-stop chatter finally faltered as they caught a glimpse of first St. Paul's, then Tower Bridge, both magnificent and overwhelming even Noel's hatred of the English bastards who'd built them.

Finally, he found the address Dec had given him, just a hundred yards from the Thames. As Noel gave him a victorious punch on the arm, he tapped the van's horn in the agreed pattern, then drove the van in as the door slid up to give him entrance.

He'd only just had time to shut off the ignition and step out of the van when he was surrounded by the rest of the brigade. The whole lot of them, even Liam, were smiling. Then, before he could defend himself, they closed in, picked him up on their shoulders, and carted him around the warehouse, whooping their approval. He felt like a footballer who'd managed to score the winning goal in a World Cup match, and all for driving a death trap of a van.

For form's sake, he protested until they finally set him down with many congratulations.

"You did it, lad," Dec said. "You got it here safely."

"Told you I would, didn't I?"

"That you did."

"Nicely done, Will," Liam said with a smile, and Bodie was oddly touched that he'd finally conquered Liam's hatred for him so close to the time when he was going to earn it all over again.

"Will was cool as silk," Noel said. "All the way from Liverpool to here. You'd never have known he was driving a van full of explosives."

"So, what now?" Bodie asked, wanting to deflect attention from himself.

"We have a little celebration planned, and then we'll settle down here for the night. The lads have got some army camp beds sorted at the back. Tomorrow, Conleth will install the detonator, and you and Noel will park the van at the target."

"Sounds reasonable," Bodie said evenly, wondering if the celebration would provide the opportunity to call in Cowley. "Did the Belfast boys give us the target yet?"

"That they did. And a juicy one it is." Noel's face was split by a fierce grin.

"Do you plan on telling me or do I have to guess?"

"Tell him, Dec," Noel said.

"You were the inspiration for their choice of targets, Will."

"Oh, yeah? How's that?" Bodie began to feel as if the floor was about to drop from beneath his feet.

"They want us to take out your old mob." Dec put an arm around him. "The target is CI5 headquarters. A perfect Christmas present for the British occupiers."

"You sure you have the right location?" Bodie asked, even as his heart began to trip hammer in his chest. "They move it regularly. They'll have moved it when I left."

"Oh, we have the right place, all right. George Cowley himself has been seen there every day." Dec gave him a friendly shake. "What do you think about that, lad?"

"Serves the bastards right," Bodie said, smiling in spite of the ice that was freezing his veins. Because now this was about more than a bomb taking out theoretical civilians in a theoretical location. Now it was his colleagues who were in danger. His friends. And Doyle.

"That it does, Will. By noon tomorrow all that'll be left of their building will be a smoking hole in the ground."

"And the only agents still alive will be the ones not in the building," Liam said, a bloodthirsty smile on his face.

"What?" Bodie said, realizing that this was even worse than he'd thought, realizing the danger to his colleagues, to Cowley, to Doyle was ever so much greater than he'd feared. "You're not going to call in a warning?"

"No. Special times call for special methods," Dec said. "We talked Belfast around into not sending a warning. We want to catch the bastards unaware."

"Destroy one wing of the security services and they'll have to pay attention. They may even start pulling out of the occupied counties." Noel looked far too pleased with himself.

"Or they'll grub us out by the roots and sow salt in the land we came from," Bodie said, horrified by the possibility that everyone he'd worked with at CI5 could be dead by this time tomorrow, killed by a weapon he'd delivered to this city. Any goodwill he'd felt towards Noel evaporated in a moment. "You'll set the cause back by decades."

"Or move it forward by decades," Liam said, all smiles gone as he stepped forward to stand by his brother's side, his usual menace returned in full force.

Dec put up both hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"C'mon now, boys, let's calm down. We all want the same thing. It's only a matter of deciding on the method." Dec put a friendly arm around Bodie. "You do want to see your old mob pay, don't you?" And then Dec gave him a look that made Bodie wonder exactly how much he knew, made him wonder if he'd had Noel make hourly calls on the trip in the van because he suspected Bodie might be playing a double game. And that made him realize that he had to play this very carefully or he'd end up dead, along with everyone he knew in CI5.

"'Course I do," he said, nodding carefully. "Bastards were ready to throw me into the dustbin quick enough. Let's see how they like being binned themselves."

"Good lad," Dec said. "And now, how'd you like to go celebrate our coming victory? We were only waiting on you to go to the pub."

"Sounds brilliant," Bodie said, giving Dec a smile that he hoped hid his misgivings, even as he was desperately trying to come up with a way of warning Cowley that hell was about to be visited upon CI5 itself.

The pub was only fifty yards from the warehouse, a grimy local that seemed to cater to workmen and the unemployed. In deference to the season, the landlord had put up a few spare sprigs of holly and a mangy Christmas tree that looked more pathetic than festive. The group from Armagh took an isolated booth at the back, dark looks directed at the regulars ensuring their privacy.

Bodie bought the first round, delivering the pints with Regan's willing help. Liam was still looking at him with renewed suspicion, but a pint soon had Noel as mellow and friendly as he'd been the last few weeks.

When they were on their fourth round and everyone, even Liam, had relaxed, Bodie decided it was time to try and get word to Cowley.

"Just going to the loo," he said, standing. "Can I get another round on the way back?"

"It was my turn, but I wouldn't mind if you took it," Conleth said.

"My pleasure," Bodie said, and made his way to the toilets, hoping luck was with him.

The men's toilet was located down a corridor at the back of the pub, with an exit right beside it. Bodie pushed the exit door open and found himself in a foul-smelling alley. He gently let go of the door, making sure he could still get in and quickly exited the alley, heading for a corner phone box he'd seen on the way in. He pulled out his change and laid it on the shelf, determined to call everyone he knew until he'd told a person, not a dumb machine, about the threat to CI5 and its agents.

He started with Cowley's number, listening impatiently as the phone rang, fearing he was only going to get the answering machine. As he was about to give up and try Doyle's number, there was the click of the receiver being raised.

* * *

George Cowley was already down the hall when he heard the phone ring in his office. Immediately, he had his keys out and was making his halting way back to his door. He cursed his leg and the winter weather that had it playing up worse than usual, then struggled to unlock the door and get to the phone before his caller gave up and rang off. Because he could tell from the ring that it wasn't his usual line and it wasn't the one the Minister used. It was the line that only Bodie knew the number for.

* * *

"Hello."

At that moment, Bodie thought that George Cowley's voice was the finest thing he'd ever heard.

"Sir. It's Bodie."

"It's good to hear from you, lad." And the old bastard really did sound pleased. Not that he took the time to dwell on that fact. Not with Dec and Noel and the crew waiting for him in the pub. 

"I have a location for the bomb, sir. It's in an East End warehouse on Narrow Street. Near Northey, just by the Limehouse Cut."

"What type of bomb is it?"

"A big one. We've loaded up an old van with enough explosives to take out Whitehall. At least the detonator hasn't been installed yet. That'll be done tomorrow, when they take it to the target. And sir, you're not going to like the target."

"I don't imagine I will, Bodie. What is it?"

"It's–"

Abruptly, the door of the phone box was opened.

"You bloody bastard," Liam said, seizing the receiver with one hand and pulling back the other into a fist. "I knew we shouldn't have trusted you." 

Bodie tried to protect himself, but in the enclosed space of the phone box he couldn't get his hands up in time. Liam's fist made contact with the side of his head once, twice, and a third time. The world turned red as explosions of pain rippled through his nervous system, then everything began to go grey as his legs buckled beneath him. The last thing he heard as he crumpled in the bottom of the box was Cowley's voice yelling his name from the receiver swinging above his head. 

Then he saw Liam's booted foot heading for his face and everything went black.

* * *

The sound of violence on the other end of the phone and the crash of the receiver slamming down shattered the relief Cowley had felt when he'd heard 3.7's voice.

In an instant he made a call to Control and instructed that all members of CI5, A and B squads, on duty and off, be called and ordered to rendezvous on Narrow Street.

All members except Doyle, that is. He'd promised Doyle that he'd make that call himself and he'd told himself long ago that he'd never break a promise to one of his men.

* * *

Doyle was alone in his flat that evening, with the crockery from dinner still in the sink and the telly chattering in the corner of the lounge. Murphy hadn't cajoled him to come to a pub; Jax hadn't asked him ‘round to dinner with his girlfriend; Ruth hadn't chivvied him to have dinner at her mum's. In part he was relieved that he hadn't had to lie to avoid an invitation he didn't have the stomach to accept, or to suffer through an evening's entertainment that only made him more aware of who he'd rather be with.

Fucking Bodie.

Doyle stood and snapped off the television, the Beeb's nattering suddenly irritating him more than he could bear. Thinking doing the washing up might settle his nerves, he moved to the kitchen and began filling the sink. He concentrated on the mundane task of washing plates and cutlery, forcing it to occupy his mind fully, not allowing his thoughts to drift back to Bodie. 

He was just wiping the edge of a paring knife, when the phone rang. The noise was loud in the quiet of the flat and startled his already jagged nerves. His hand slipped, the sharpened edge of the knife slicing the middle finger on his left hand.

"Bugger," he swore, sucking on his finger in an effort to slow the bleeding as he ran for the phone.

"What?" he barked into the receiver, in no mood for social niceties.

"Doyle," Cowley said, his voice sounding more tense than usual. "I need you in Limehouse right away. Corner of Narrow and Northey streets."

"Is it–"

"It's Bodie," Cowley said, not even letting him complete the question. "He's in London. There's a bomb, and he called to let me know where it is." Doyle's first reaction was relief. Relief that Bodie was alive, relief that he was in London, relief that this miserable fucking assignment would soon be over. But then he realized that Cowley's voice held a new tension, one that he hadn't even heard after the ambush.

"That's not all, is it?" 

"No, I'm afraid not. His cover's been blown."

Doyle didn't bother with another word. He simply slammed down the phone, grabbed his gun, jacket and keys, slipped on his still-tied trainers and was out the door in seconds. He ran to his car, cursing the fact that he hadn't found parking closer to his building this evening, and pulled away from the kerb with a squeal of the tyres.

"Don't be dead, you stupid bastard," he chanted as he shifted gears viciously and took a corner faster than he should have done, sending pigeons and pedestrians scrambling in his wake. "Don't you be bloody dead."

* * *

Bodie came to with a gasp as his face was struck hard by an open palm. In spite of the dark shadows that had chased him into unconsciousness, waking up was not an improvement, bringing as it did a new awareness of the pain that seemed to throb at every nerve ending he had.

"About time the bastard woke up," a man's voice said. Bodie wasn't sure he recognized the voice's owner, but he could tell he was angry.

Raising his head, Bodie opened his eyes and found he was tied firmly to a wooden chair and surrounded by five men, all seething with a visible rage. A sixth man stood just at the edge of Bodie's vision, his shoulders slumped.

Ah yes, Bodie remembered. Liam, Dec, the IRA. Noel.

Fuck.

"Are you with us now, you bastard?" Liam asked. "Ready to answer a few questions?" He moved forward, quick as a viper striking its prey, and punched Bodie in the stomach. Bodie felt the air forced from his lungs and he struggled to breathe, struggled not to retch.

Liam moved forward and pulled Bodie's head up by the hair. Bodie looked past Liam's snarling face to where Noel stood at the back of the group. Noel's face reflected the hatred in Liam's, but there was more there as well. Disappointment and regret, hurt and betrayal. Bodie could only look at Noel for a few long seconds before he let his eyes drop.

"Who were you calling in that phone box?"

"My local betting shop," Bodie whispered. "Had a dog I wanted to lay a wager on."

"Liar!" Liam cuffed his head with an open palm, hard enough that the edges of his vision went grey.

"No need to hit me. I'd've told you the dog's name."

Liam hit him again, even harder. One more blow and Bodie thought he might just pass out again, and then they wouldn't be able to question him.

"'Course, I'm not sure they'd let you place a bet. Jumped-up little Irish git like you, they'd toss you out on your ear."

Liam roared wordlessly and drew back his hand for a final blow, but Dec caught his wrist before he could deliver it.

"Calm down, Liam," Dec said, moving forward. "Much more of that and he won't be in any shape to talk at all. And we want him to talk." Bodie looked up and held Dec's eyes. Dec returned his gaze with the same look of avuncular concern that had impressed Bodie on their first meeting. "You do want to talk, Will. Don't you?"

Repulsed that he had ever thought he could admire this man, Bodie's only answer was to spit in his face. Dec stared at him, spittle and blood running down his cheek, and it was then that Bodie finally saw his veneer of civility and affability crack.

Dec wiped his face and cleaned his hand on Bodie's shirt. Then he stepped back and turned to Liam.

"Break him," he said, his voice calm and cold and sharp as a blade.

* * *

Murphy was at Susan's Battersea flat that night. They were taking another stab at breaking Cowley's fraternization rule, and decided Susan's flat was the better location. Not only was it more comfortable than Murphy's miniscule place in Finsbury Park, but it was well off the beaten path of any other agent. The last thing they needed was for the CI5 rumour mill to get started on them before they'd really decided if there was a them.

They hadn't got beyond the coffee on the sofa and talking stage when Susan's phone rang.

"Oh, for Christ's sake..." she trailed off as she ran to grab the offending instrument. 

"Have you annoyed the Cow lately?" Murphy asked jokingly, receiving a two-finger salute in response.

But then she wasn't laughing any more. She was frowning and nodding and hanging up. Before she could explain what was happening, Murphy's R/T beeped. As he thumbed it on, his gaze firmly on Susan's very serious expression, he experienced the spike of adrenaline that always preceded an important op, the rush of anticipation and exhilaration and fear that kept all of them in the game. As he listened to Control, he knew this was bad, was very bad indeed. And he couldn't help but speculate that such a full-scale call-out had something to do with Bodie.

He and Susan took separate cars—no reason to give the gossips of CI5 any more grist to work on than they already had—and broke all speed limits. They arrived on Narrow Street within seconds of each other.

By the time they joined the knot of other agents surrounding Cowley, their boss was well into giving his orders.

"We've received information that the IRA are planning a bombing tomorrow. Nice of you to join us, 6.2." Cowley's eyes flicked to the side. "And you too, Susan."

"Sorry, sir," they said in unison, and Murphy hoped against hope that the look Cowley gave them both didn't herald a lecture on breaking squad rules.

Cowley continued with the briefing. "We've also learned that they're storing the van containing the explosives in the warehouse up ahead."

"Who gave us the tip?" Jax asked. "That lot usually don't give up their own."

"The information was called in by 3.7."

A noticeable buzz arose among the agents as Murphy swept the crowd for Doyle. He found him standing alone at the edge of the crowd and elbowed his way in that direction.

"Bodie? But he's–"

"Under suspicion for corruption and a fugitive. Is that what you were about to say, Lucas?"

"Yes, sir."

"3.7 has been working undercover on my orders. And it appears his cover has been blown, so we also may have a hostage situation on our hands. I'd appreciate it if none of you shot Bodie. It's damned expensive to replace an agent."

"Too bad," Anson whispered as Murphy passed by. "I owe Bodie twenty quid. Ow, what'd you do that for?" Anson rubbed his head where Murphy had cuffed him.

"Because you're a prat," Murphy said, and continued over to where Doyle stood.

"You okay, mate?" he asked Doyle when he reached his side.

Doyle shrugged but said nothing and Murphy didn't push him. After all, what was there to say?

"B squad will set up a cordon around the area." Cowley had reached the substance of his orders. "No one in or out, I don't care if it's your dear old granny or Maggie Thatcher herself. The A Squad will move in close and await my orders. Anson, Murphy, and Doyle, with me."

Murphy grabbed Doyle by the elbow and moved over to Cowley. He shot Anson a warning look, but 5.8 was smart enough to realize that joking about the possible demise of Bodie around the man's partner was a sure ticket to the hospital. And possibly to the morgue.

"You three are the best shots with a rifle in the squad."

"Except for Bodie," Doyle said impatiently.

"Yes, 4.5, except for Bodie." Cowley's irritation at being interrupted was visible, but if he was going to tear a strip off Doyle, he was saving it for later. "I want you all on sniper duty. Anson, you'll be on the balcony across from the warehouse. Doyle, on the roof opposite. Murphy, in the shop diagonally across from the entrance. Keep your R/Ts on and do not fire until I give the order. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Murphy and Anson said.

"Doyle? Are you clear on this?"

"Yes, sir."

Murphy saw Cowley glance down at Doyle's hand and followed his gaze.

"You've cut yourself, Doyle," Cowley said. "Are you all right?" Murphy could see a drop of blood forming at the tip of Doyle left hand. Doyle held the hand up as if he'd forgotten it was bleeding.

"Was doing the dishes when you called. Cut meself on a knife." He stuck the hand behind his back. "It's nothing."

"It had better be nothing. For Bodie's sake." Cowley stalked away and began barking orders to the other members of the squad, leaving Murphy to wonder if Cowley really was a ruthless bastard, or if there was a heart still beating beneath his well-tailored suit.

"C'mon," Anson said. "Let's get the rifles and get in position."

"Yeah, in a minute," Murph said.

When Anson was out of earshot, Murph grabbed Doyle's hand and looked at the cut. It wasn't large, but it was deep, and still oozing blood.

"You going to be able to shoot with this?"

"Not my trigger finger, is it?" Doyle pulled his hand away quickly. "Besides, I can't even feel it."

Murphy didn't like the sound of that, but he wasn't going to be the one to tell Doyle he shouldn't be on this raid. Not with Bodie in the hands of the IRA. Not when Cowley was willing to let him play a key role. But CI5 looked after their own, and it was clear that Doyle wasn't looking after himself at the moment.

Murphy grabbed Doyle by the wrist and pulled him over to his car. "You may not be able to feel it, but I doubt Peters will like it if you get blood all over one of his rifles." Before Doyle could protest, Murphy had pulled out the first aid kit he kept in his glove box and had a plaster on Doyle's finger. "There, that's better." He pushed Doyle towards the equipment van. "Now let's go get Bodie back, shall we?"

* * *

Doyle grabbed a rifle and ammunition from Peters at the equipment van and ran, adrenaline thrumming through his system and coiling his nerves tight. He shouldered open the door of the building he was assigned to and found the lift out of order. _Bloody typical_ , he thought, focusing on his annoyance rather than his dread, and began climbing the stairs. Once he was on the roof, he moved to the side that overlooked the warehouse.

There was a half wall at the edge of the roof, and he got down behind it in shooting position, ignoring the gravel digging into his knee, ignoring the pain in his cut finger, ignoring the cold air that burned with each breath he took, ignoring the voice that was screaming in his ear, yelling that he get Bodie out of that warehouse _now_. He wanted nothing more than to burst into the warehouse, put a bullet straight through any villain in his way, and get Bodie safe and clear, but he knew that would only ensure that the two of them would end up two more corpses sacrificed in the defence of Cowley's England.

Instead, he crouched on the rooftop like the good soldier he wasn't and waited for the order to act.

"In position," he said, keeping an eye on the warehouse as he thumbed on his R/T. "No movement visible."

"Hold until my orders, Doyle," came Cowley's response. "And keep the channel open."

He placed the R/T beside him, making sure it was left on, then got back into a solid firing position. With effort, he kept his breathing deep and steady, watching as Lucas and McCabe made a recce on the warehouse, peering into windows from the shadows before pulling back to report to the Cow.

"There are six men in the warehouse, plus Bodie." Cowley's voice was low on the R/T. "No clear shots through the window."

Doyle was on his R/T on in an instant.

"And Bodie? How is Bodie?"

"Bodie is alive but won't be able to help us. Now keep the channel clear, Doyle."

If he could have done, Doyle would have thrown the R/T into the wall behind him, smashing it into splinters. But he couldn't, so instead he set it carefully down, blew out a breath, and fixed his aim firmly on the door.

"C'mon, Bodie, you half-Irish son-of-a-bitch," he said under his breath. "You're too bloody mean to die."

A minute more, and then Cowley launched his opening salvo, using a loudhailer to demand the men in the warehouse surrender. There was no immediate response, except that the lights in the warehouse were turned off. Not stupid, then, the Irish lads. Didn't want to make it any easier for CI5 to make a shot.

Five minutes passed before Cowley once again used the loudhailer, giving the men in the warehouse a deadline of ten minutes to respond. They barely waited until he was finished talking before the door to the warehouse was thrown open. There was no other movement for a long minute, then a bearded man was pushed through the door with another man hiding behind him, holding a gun to his head. Doyle moved slightly to the right until he had the armed man in his sights.

"Keep back," yelled the man with the gun. "Keep back or I shoot your man."

Doyle wondered for a brief second who the poor bloke with the beard was before a shock of recognition ran through him. Bodie. Not just bearded, but beaten. Looking through his rifle sight, Doyle could see that Bodie was bruised and bloodied, and looked like he could barely stand on his own. As Doyle watched, he seemed to waver on his feet before being pulled upright by his captor.

_Bastards_ , Doyle thought. _I'll kill them_. But even if he had the shot, he didn't have Cowley's go ahead. He could only wait and hope Bodie wouldn't be caught in any crossfire they created.

Just then, two new men appeared in the doorway, partially obscured by shadows. Both held Armalites, and both looked like they knew what to do with the weapons.

"Who am I talking to?" yelled one of the men from the door.

"George Cowley. CI5."

"Hello, George Cowley, CI5."

"What do you want?" Got straight to the point, the Cow.

"I don't suppose you'd consider recalling all British forces from Ireland in return for your man?"

"Much as I value Bodie, I don't suppose I would."

"Well, then, I'll settle for safe passage for my men and myself to the nearest small airport with a plane and pilot ready to go."

"And if I don't meet your demands?"

"Then we'll shoot Will where he stands and blow the bomb in the warehouse."

"I see." There was a pause. "I'll need to consult my superiors. I don't have the power to authorize that sort of thing."

"Talk to who you like but make sure you do it in the next two minutes. That's all the time Will has."

Doyle felt his heart speed up as he stared down at Bodie and wondered if this was it, the last time he'd see Bodie alive, separated from him by a few hundred yards and an IRA gunman. He felt his anger, never far beneath the surface, rise up within him and take cold control.

"Anson," Cowley's voice came over the R/T, softly and firmly. "Can you take the man to the right of the doorway?"

"Yes."

"Murphy, the man on the left of the doorway?"

"Got him."

"Doyle, the man who has Bodie is yours."

"Right," Doyle acknowledged.

"Lucas, McCabe, Jax, Fischer, get ready to move in as soon as you hear the shots. You'll need to stop the remaining three men from blowing the bomb."

"Anson, Murphy, Doyle, wait for my word to shoot."

Doyle took a deep breath and held it, placing his finger lightly on the trigger.

"Fire," Cowley said.

Doyle squeezed.

* * *

The sound of George Cowley's voice outside the warehouse gave Bodie some measure of hope. Because if Cowley was here, then maybe Doyle was as well. He held that thought close, made it his reason to survive.

He was lying on the ground, taking a kicking from Liam. He'd heard one rib crack already and if he lived, he knew he'd be pissing blood for a week from the beating his kidneys had taken. His face was a mass of bruises and he had scrapes on his hands from where he'd tried to protect himself. But apart from the rib, he didn't think any other bones were broken. Yet.

Liam gave him one final kick, and then strode over and turned off the lights.

Bodie forced himself not to drift into unconsciousness for the next few minutes. He knew that with himself as the only hostage, Cowley would be staging an assault. And sooner rather than later.

He tried to pay attention to what Dec and the rest were saying around him, hoping to find a way to stay alive in the coming minutes, but it was all so much noise to him.

When Liam pulled him to his feet and dragged him to the door, a gun to his head, he found he could barely stay upright. He listened as Dec threatened to kill him and blow up the warehouse if CI5 didn't meet his demands. And he held his breath, wondering where Doyle was and waiting for the inevitable attack from the squad.

He didn't have long to wait. Mere seconds after Cowley had asked for time to consult with his superiors, the sound of a rifle shot rent the air. Behind him, a bullet shattered Liam's skull, splattering Bodie with blood and fragments of bone. Liam fell to the ground like so much meat. Bodie glanced behind him and saw the bodies of Noel and Declan sprawled on the ground. A neat round bloom of blood was visible on Noel's chest. Dec's face had been shattered by a bullet.

There was another flurry of movement behind him, then more shooting.

"All clear," he heard Lucas shout from behind him.

It was over. And he was still alive. Blessedly, miraculously alive.

Suddenly, it was all too much. His knees went out from under him and he pitched down onto the road.

* * *

As soon as Doyle pulled the trigger, he froze over, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but watch.

He watched through his rifle's scope as the bullet from his gun shattered his target's head. 

He watched as Bodie was sprayed with gouts of blood, watched as the CI5 team entered the warehouse. He heard the all clear, but as if from a great distance, as if the sound was coming from another world away and not the R/T at his feet.

Then Bodie fell.

His legs wobbled and folded and he went down hard on the cold, frozen ground. And Doyle found he wasn't frozen any more; he was on fire, burning with worry and fear. He tried to take a lungful of air and found his lungs were blazing, too. His thoughts were full of "what ifs." What if Bodie had been hit, what if he were wounded? What if he were dead?

Instinct took over, the instinct to protect his partner, to be at his side, no matter what. Instinct made him sprint. Instinct made him throw the rifle, its clattering on the gravel of the roof registering only as a distraction to be ignored. Instinct made him hit the stairs at a dead run, trusting luck and fate to keep him from tumbling, to carry him safely to Bodie.

* * *

Murphy was the closest, so it was Murphy who made it to Bodie first.

In an instant, he was on his knees, feeling Bodie's limbs and torso for a bullet wound. "Are you hit?" Bodie shook his head no, and Murphy couldn't find any wound. But the damage from the beating he'd taken was worrying.

"Doyle?" Bodie asked, clutching at Murphy's sleeve.

"He's coming. He was on that roof saving your life."

"My hero," Bodie said without any sarcasm. He tried to stand up, but Murphy put a hand on his chest.

"Don't move, Bodie. Not until they've checked you out."

Bodie's eyes flicked over to the corpse lying a few feet away. Murphy couldn't blame him for wanting to get away from it, but he was well trained and stilled his movements. Murphy took off his jacket and put it over his friend. It wasn't much, but until the ambulance got here, it was all he could think of doing.

"Bodie!" They both turned immediately to the voice and saw Doyle running towards them. 

"Ray." Bodie's voice broke on the name.

"He's okay, Doyle," Murphy said, wanting to allay the concern on Doyle's face. "He's been beaten, but he'll be okay." And then as he watched, the concern transformed into rage.

"Bodie, you stupid bastard." Before Murphy could react, Doyle kneeled at his partner's side and clutched his arm. Doyle's knuckles were white, so tight was his hold. "What the fuck were you playing at?"

"Ray–" Bodie tried to break in, but Doyle wouldn't be stopped.

"Agreeing to Cowley's daft plan. Running off without telling me. Playing around with bombs. I could murder you myself."

Murphy wondered if Doyle realized he was crying, the tears running down his cheeks unregarded even as his face twisted in fury.

"Why didn't you tell me what you were doing?"

"Couldn't," Bodie choked on the word. "Cow's orders."

"But it was me, Bodie. Me."

"Didn't matter."

"Bastard," Doyle said, abruptly letting go of Bodie's arm.

"Probably." Bodie closed his eyes, as if he could no longer bear the sight of Doyle's anger.

"Oh, Bodie..." Doyle stopped talking then, words finally failing him. He pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, his usual grace having deserted him, and backed slowly away from his partner. Only then did Doyle seem to notice Murphy. He stared at Murphy, his eyes so naked with exposed grief and rage that Murphy nearly had to look away.

"Look after him, Murph," Doyle said, then before Murphy could say one word in reply, he spun on his heel and was running down the cobbled street, only to be swallowed up by the throngs of CI5 agents milling about the place.

"Doyle," Murphy called out. He started to stand, but Bodie's hand on his arm stopped him.

"'S all right. Let him go." Bodie's voice was quiet. "Gets like that sometimes. He keeps it all bottled up inside until he's got to run."

"But how far will he run?"

"As far as he needs to. And then he'll come back."

"Will he?" Murphy thought back again to those green eyes flashing with anger and hurt and something else that he couldn't name and didn't want to. "Will he come back?"

"Yeah, he will." Murphy looked down at Bodie and saw a pain in his eyes that had nothing to do with his injuries. "He's got to, hasn't he?"

* * *

Bodie lay on the macadam, a pebble digging into his back and Murphy's coat covering him, as CI5 agents following George Cowley's orders eddied and swirled around him. He concentrated on the pebble. It was annoying, but it gave him a welcome distraction from the rest of his body, which was a battlefield of shattering pain. He wished it were Doyle beside him instead of Murph, wished Doyle hadn't fled, even as he understood why he had. Or thought he understood. Sometimes he felt he knew Doyle's thoughts before Doyle did himself, but other times he wondered if he knew him at all.

Before he could get too maudlin, could think too much about Doyle, he found George Cowley himself crouched at his side, and fucked if he didn't look concerned, the old bastard. As if this whole mess wasn't his fault.

"How are you, Bodie?"

"I've been better."

"Murphy?" Cowley looked to Murphy and gave him a withering glare that dared him to lie about Bodie's condition.

"He's been badly beaten, but there are no broken bones, no bullet wounds."

"There's one rib broken, at least," Bodie muttered.

"You've had worse than a broken rib, lad," Cowley said, turning his attention back to Bodie. "You did well. England owes you more than it can ever repay." Cowley focused on the chaos surrounding them. "Look after him, Murphy. The ambulance is on the way." Then Bodie saw Cowley start, as if he'd realized what was wrong, who was missing. "Where's Doyle?"

"Been and gone, sir." Bodie croaked out. "Was a bit upset."

"I don't doubt it," Cowley said with a nod. "6.2, you're in charge of 3.7 for the time being. Follow the ambulance and stay with Bodie until you're relieved."

"Yes, sir."

"And you, lad," Cowley said, looking back at Bodie. "You follow the doctors' orders and let Murphy do what he can for you. I don't want to lose you to internal bleeding just because you were too proud and too stubborn to do as you're told."

Bodie gritted his teeth around the pain and nodded. For once, he wasn't going to fight a visit to the hospital.

"Good lad." Cowley patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and stood. "And now I have to get the bomb squad in to deal with that van. And then let MI5 and the Home Secretary know what's going on."

"Go ahead, sir," Murphy said. "We'll be all right."

Cowley nodded, rose, and then began once again roaring orders to the surrounding agents.

"I can hear the ambulance coming now," Murph said, and Bodie could too, the thin whine of the siren growing louder and louder.

"None too soon," Bodie said with a gasp.

"You must be rough, if you're looking forward to a hospital visit."

"'M not well, I can tell you that for free."

"You'll be all right," Murph said. He looked at him closely. "Nearly didn't recognize you with the beard," Murph said, and Bodie blessed him for finding something to distract from his injuries. Something to distract him from thoughts of Doyle.

"That was the point, Murph. Didn't want to be picked up by our side before the op was over."

"Clearly it worked." Murphy looked up. "Here's the ambulance, then."

The next few minutes were a whirl as Bodie was loaded into the ambulance. Murphy gave him one final pat before making for his own car to follow them to the hospital. Hours passed in a fog of pain and boredom as Bodie was shuttled from Casualty to X-ray and back, and a host of doctors and nurses checked him for concussion, broken bones, bleeding, and any other fucking problem they could think of. At the end of it they wanted to hold him overnight for observation when all Bodie wanted to do was head back to his own flat and put his head down on his own pillow.

"I do have a flat still, don't I?" Bodie looked from the doctor he was arguing with to his friend.

"Yeah. Sort of." Murphy held up a key between two fingers. "Cowley chucked this my way before I pulled out. But I'm afraid Doyle did a bit of redecorating the last time he was there."

"Showed a bit of temper, did he?"

"You might say that."

"That's my Ray." Bodie smiled slightly, until he realized how much even that little movement hurt his swollen and bruised face. "Anyway, if Cowley gave you the key I'll bet he had the place cleaned up after Ray's visit."

"I wouldn't advise you leaving, Mr. Bodie." The doctor, a young, gangly bloke with an accent somewhere north of Leeds, looked decidedly unhappy about losing his patient. "Not without having someone to look after you."

"Murph?" Bodie looked hopefully at his friend, giving him the mournful look that Doyle always said made him look about ten years old.

"I'll stay with him." Murphy shrugged. "Cowley's ordered me to keep an eye on you, and anyway, what else am I going to do?"

"You're a brick, Murph. Doctor?"

"I suppose it'll have to do." He pulled out a pad, scribbled something illegible, and handed the prescription to Murph. "See he takes these for the next few days. Painkillers and anti-inflammatory medication. And keep an eye out for signs of internal bleeding. If he experiences severe abdominal pain..."

"Got that already," Bodie interrupted.

"More severe abdominal pain than he has already," the doctor continued, with only a sharp look in Bodie's direction. "If he becomes confused or faints, get him back here immediately. If he vomits blood, call for an ambulance."

"Got all that, Murph?"

"I think I can manage." Murphy turned to the doctor. "Can we get a wheelchair to get him to the car?"

"I don't need a bloody wheelchair."

"You're in no shape to walk it, and I'm not carrying you."

"I can walk." Bodie made to stand, and froze as a whole host of new pains made themselves known.

"You stay there, Butch." Murph gently pushed him back onto the exam table. "I'll go get the wheelchair."

Bodie sat and waited for Murphy to return while the doctor glared at him, informing him with a look what a bloody idiot he thought he was being. Bodie returned the favour by glaring back, though any threat he might have made was entirely academic.

Murphy finally returned with the hated wheelchair, bundled Bodie into the thing, and then got him, with difficulty, into his car. He was about to turn towards Bodie's flat when Bodie put a hand on his shoulder.

"Doyle still in the same place?"

"Yeah."

"Can we drive past there first?"

A nod, and Murphy was pulling out into traffic. Neither of them spoke on the way, for which Bodie was extremely grateful. He wasn't up to conversation, and certainly not a conversation about Doyle. Especially since he was getting the impression that Murphy had an opinion on the subject of Doyle. Rather a lot of opinions, he suspected.

Murphy pulled in front of Doyle's flat and Bodie craned his neck so he could see his front window. It was dark, the curtains pulled. Didn't mean he wasn't there—stupid bugger could be hiding in the dark—but a glance in either direction told him Doyle's car was nowhere to be found on the street. He shook his head, and Murphy pulled out, heading towards Bodie's flat.

He managed to walk the twenty odd feet to the front door of his block of flats, but Bodie was never so grateful that the lift was actually working. Bloody thing was out more often than not and Bodie didn't think he could have made it up the stairs this time. Once in the flat, Murphy slung him on the sofa, then headed to the back of the flat to sort out the heating and the boiler. Sitting on the sofa, his jacket still on against the chill, he had time to examine his surroundings. The sofa was the same, though there was a rip in one cushion he didn't remember, and there was a lamp he recalled, but the rest was new to him. He shook his head. Doyle must have been out of his head to destroy two tables, a chair, and a lamp.

He glanced at the new coffee table, wondering what had become of the picture he'd left for Doyle. If Doyle had destroyed the furniture, Bodie could imagine what he'd done with the picture. No doubt it was torn up, its frame bent and its glass smashed into dust. It was never a treat, being on the receiving end of one of Doyle's tempers, but in a perverse way, the thought of Doyle's fury made him feel safer than he'd done since he set foot in Ireland.

Bodie had nearly fallen asleep when Murphy finally returned, bearing a tray with a pot of tea, two cups, and two bowls of soup.

"I didn't reckon you'd eaten for a while," Murphy said in explanation as he helped him shed his jacket. "I know I'm starving. And there wasn't much in your larder besides a tin of soup."

"Thanks, Murph." Bodie gratefully got stuck into the soup while Murphy played mother and poured the tea. Bodie's stomach was telling him he had to eat, even if he didn't much feel like it, so eat he did, years of soldiering having trained him to look out for his body's needs when he could. Murphy sat across from him in the replacement for his dearly departed armchair and ate his own soup. His table manners were impeccable and his soup eating was nearly silent. Bodie found he missed Doyle's noisy slurping.

When the soup was done, Murphy passed him two tablets from the bottles he'd picked up at the all-night chemist's they'd stopped at on the way to the flat. Bodie swallowed them with a sip of tea and without complaint. He normally hated the muzzy feeling that painkillers gave him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be clear-headed at the moment. A mildly narcotic oblivion had its appeal. 

He could use a bath, not to mention a shave, but he didn't have the energy for a bath, and with the shape his face was in, he reckoned a shave would hurt like fuck. Instead, he stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes, only to have Murphy tug gently on one arm.

"Oh, no you don't. Fall asleep there and I'll never shift you. It's the bed for you."

"Maybe I don't want to be shifted."

"Maybe you don't have a choice."

"You're a hard man, Murph."

"So they tell me."

Bodie let Murphy ease him off the sofa and help him to the bedroom, amazed at how much he'd stiffened up even in the short time he'd sat on the sofa. He hoped the drugs did their work. And quickly.

With Murphy's assistance, he slid out of his clothes and into the seldom-worn pyjamas kept for visits to birds' family homes and hospital, then slid between cool sheets.

"I'll just be out there." Murphy pointed his thumb at the lounge. "You need anything, have any pain, start feeling really rotten, you give me a shout."

Bodie nodded and closed his eyes, the drugs starting to catch him up quickly now.

He heard Murph begin to move quietly out of the room.

"Murph?" he said, possessed of a need to ask something before sleep claimed him.

"Yeah?"

"How's he been? Doyle, I mean?"

"He's all right." Murphy's voice was uninflected and calm, and Bodie knew he was lying.

"I need the truth. Not a convenient lie."

There was a shuffling sound at the door. Bodie opened his eyes to see Murphy scuffing his shoes on the floor like a schoolboy about to face the headmaster for smoking behind the bike shed.

"Murph?"

"The truth? He's been fucking awful. Furious one minute; miserable the next. And the last month... Well, he's been like a walking corpse. No life in him at all."

Bodie swallowed hard, but didn't say a word. Nothing he could say. He'd known what this was going to cost him, cost Doyle, from the start. No use whingeing now that the cost was being collected.

"Bodie."

"Yeah."

"He missed you." Murphy paused, as if he were carefully considering his words. "He told me once, and the rest of the time I could tell."

"I missed him, too," Bodie said, and it was nothing more than the truth, even if there was more truth he would never share with Murph.

"Bodie?"

"Yeah?"

Murphy stared at him for a few long seconds, until Bodie began to wonder just what he wanted to say. And then Murphy frustrated his curiosity.

"Nothing. Sleep well."

"The drugs I've taken, it'll be a miracle if I can't," Bodie said. Murphy closed the door, leaving him in near total darkness. Bodie closed his eyes, expecting to drift into sleep immediately, but found he couldn't. In spite of being doped to the eyeballs, he couldn't turn off his thoughts. As he listened to Murphy shifting on the sofa, listened to the cars passing on the road outside, he played back Doyle's outburst at the warehouse, pulling apart what it might mean to Doyle, what it meant to him, what it could mean to them. He thought about Murphy's admission of how badly off Doyle had been. Thought about Murph's comment that Doyle had missed him.

He thought about how much he wanted Doyle here, right now, warming the bed beside him, holding him, telling him everything would be all right, even if they both knew it wouldn't. Thought about how much he loved the bastard, even though he'd never admitted it to himself, much less to Doyle.

But even his racing mind could only fight the drugs so long. Eventually, Bodie drifted into sleep, the sound of a far away siren in his ears and the image of Doyle smiling down at him in his mind's eye.

* * *

Doyle braked at the side of the road and stepped out of the car. He hopped the wooden fence that separated him from a frozen field and began walking, the frosted ground crunching beneath his feet. He wasn't entirely sure where he was, except that he was somewhere in Essex, and had only the vaguest idea of how he'd got here. He was altogether too aware of why he'd ended up in this field, though. Why he'd run out on Bodie when Bodie had needed him most. Why he'd fucked off when he most should have stuck it out.

After weeks, no, months of wondering where Bodie was, of hoping he was alive, of wanting him back, he'd got his wish. And faced with the man whose absence he'd been grieving for so long, what had he done? Nearly given in to an overwhelming desire to beat the stupid fucker's head in, and then done a runner.

Christ, he was a piece of work.

Doyle stopped walking and looked up, noticing for the first time the stars shining overhead, their glow unobscured by city lights. He drew in a deep breath, concentrating on the sensation of the cold air entering his lungs, on the stretch of the muscles of his chest. He tried to concentrate on the stillness of the moment, to halt the racing of his mind, but it was impossible. He felt too much, cared too much.

He'd found he could live without Bodie, after a fashion, but it was a poor sort of life. But having him back...that was nearly worse. All he could think of was how terrible it would be to lose him yet again, how much more difficult to survive another loss.

But those were a coward's thoughts, avoiding grief by avoiding risk. Of all the things Doyle knew himself to be, a coward wasn't one of them. 

He had to go back to the city, had to talk to Bodie. Had to find out what Cowley and Ireland and the IRA had left them.

He turned around, crunched his way across the field, and pointed the car back at London.

* * *

Bodie awoke with a gasp, drawn up from his drug-induced sleep by a nightmare image of Doyle running from him, Doyle being shot. Doyle dying.

He lay there, eyes open, breath coming in harsh gasps, waiting for the nightmare to fade enough for him to attempt sleep again. It was only when his breathing had slowed to normal, when the sight of the dream Doyle's sightless, dead eyes had drifted and diminished, that he felt another presence in the room.

"Murph?" he said, even knowing that Murphy would never sit silently with him in the dark.

"Not Murph," said a voice he knew better than his own, but a voice hoarser and lower than he remembered.

"Doyle," Bodie said. Then, "Ray."

"Yeah." 

Bodie's eyes tracked to the voice, and he found a shadowy figure sitting in a chair in the corner. He reached over and fumbled for the lamp switch, the movement reawakening a multitude of aches and pains.

"Don't," Doyle said suddenly just as Bodie had got his hands on the bloody switch. "Leave the light off, would you." Bodie heard Doyle shifting in his seat.

"Why?"

"Feel like you might disappear with the light on." Bodie could make out Doyle shrugging in the dim of the bedroom. "Stupid, I know."

But Bodie didn't think it was stupid. He reckoned he knew just how Doyle felt. He still didn't feel like this was entirely real, that Doyle was finally here, real and solid and not a phantom of his troubled thoughts.

Bodie lay back and rolled onto his side, keeping Doyle in sight the whole while.

"Where were you?"

"Driving." Doyle said. "Ended up in a field in Essex, if you can believe it."

"Daft sod." Was exactly the sort of thing Doyle would do.

"Yeah."

"Could've used you at the hospital, mate. Murph's not as good as you at terrifying the medical staff into doing his bidding."

"Murph's a big lad, but he needs to work on his menace."

"Speaking of whom, is he still in the lounge?"

"Nah. I told him to go home. That I'd keep an eye on you. After he nearly shot me, that is."

"What?"

"My own fault. I let myself in. Still have the keys, don't I? I think Murph thought I was an IRA gunman set on taking you out. He may not be much for menace, but he's one hell of a bodyguard."

"Glad he didn't shoot you."

"Are you?" Doyle's tone went from breezy to bitter in a single heartbeat.

"'Course I am. What sort of stupid question is that?"

"I don't know, Bodie. I don't know anything anymore." Doyle stopped talking and Bodie wasn't sure what to say next. The silence stretched and grew between them until Bodie could feel its presence, its unbearable physicality. Then Doyle broke the silence, shattered it like a workman smashing a wall with a sledgehammer. 

"Why'd you leave, Bodie?"

"What was I supposed to do, Ray?" Bodie felt the anger rise from within him, anger that he had to explain this to Doyle, of all people. "An IRA bombing campaign in the offing and me the only one who could stop it? What the fuck was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to tell me. Supposed to let me know. I'm your fucking partner, Bodie. Your friend. Your–" Doyle stopped abruptly, as if he was on the verge of giving away too much. But Bodie already knew what he was going to give away, because he felt it too. Fucking Cowley, taking him away from Ray when they'd been so close to something so good.

"I couldn't, Ray." Bodie swallowed hard around the sudden swelling in his throat. "You were... No, fuck it, you are bloody everything to me, but I couldn't tell you. Not without compromising the mission, and it was too important to do that."

"I wouldn't have compromised the mission."

"They were watching you. At the first, at least. They wouldn't take me in ‘til they'd checked out my situation. If you'd known I was on a mission, would you have acted the same?"

"If I'd known what was at stake, I'd have managed."

"We weren't sure of that."

"We?" Doyle interrupted him.

"All right. _Cowley_ wasn't sure. But I didn't disagree."

"Jesus." Doyle stood and paced the room. Bodie wasn't sure if he was going to leave or stay or put his fist through the wall, so he simply waited. He'd got used to that as Doyle's partner: the waiting. Waiting for his temper to blow over, waiting for him to think things through. Waiting, Bodie remembered with a stab, for him to decide he wanted Bodie as much as Bodie wanted him.

Finally, Doyle's breathing slowed and his shoulders relaxed and Bodie thought that they might just make it through this.

Doyle moved again, but this time instead of sitting in the chair, he sat on the bed. Ignoring the pain in his belly, Bodie sat up till he was face to face with Doyle.

"You said I'm everything to you?" Doyle said. "Well, you're everything to me. Have been for a long time. It gutted me when the Cow told me what you'd been accused of, and it nearly did me in when you ran without talking to me. I kept telling myself none of it was true, but I couldn't help wondering what I'd do if it were. That was bad."

Doyle stopped talking, and Bodie could hear his breath coming in great, shuddering heaves.

"Doyle–"

"Then we figured out what was really going on, Murph and me." Doyle continued without acknowledging Bodie's interruption. "Figured out you must be undercover, and that was worse. ‘Cause I finally knew where you were and I couldn't do a fucking thing to help you." Doyle paused as he drew in a breath that stuck in his throat. "That's what we do, Bodie. We help each other. Watch each other's backs. Keep each other safe. It was tearing me up that I couldn't do that."

"Ray." Bodie leaned forward, wanting desperately to touch Doyle, but uncertain whether that touch would be welcome, uncertain whether he even still had the right.

"Two months. Two fucking months I knew you were over there. Two months trying not to lose my mind with worry."

"Wasn't easy for me, either," Bodie said, wanting Doyle to know he wasn't alone in his pain. "Knowing I could be rumbled any time. Knowing I might not see you again."

"Bodie..." His name a warning on Doyle's tongue. 

"Knowing what I had to do and knowing you might not forgive me for it."

"Why wouldn't I forgive you?" Doyle seemed honestly baffled.

"You're not exactly known for your merciful nature, Ray. And I did some fucking awful things over there."

"Our mob is always doing some fucking awful things. Nothing new there."

"Not like I did over there." Bodie swallowed hard, a flash of British Army green and blood red appearing in his vision. "I ambushed a British patrol. Did you hear about that?"

"Of course I heard about the fucking ambush." Doyle was suddenly yelling. "Thought you'd been shot, then, didn't I?"

"What?"

"They found blood where the shooters were. Reckoned someone had been hit. And it was your type, Bodie. I kept waiting for them to find your body, tipped in a field somewhere." There was anger in Doyle's voice, but there were other things as well. Fear. Worry. Long-buried love.

"Christ," Bodie said. "And here I'd been worried you'd never forgive me for shooting those soldiers."

"Not forgive you?" Doyle shook his head slowly. "You could murder half of London and I'd still forgive you. Can't help myself. You're half of me, aren't you?"

Bodie shook his head, not believing what he'd heard. But then Doyle moved closer, and then they were touching. Doyle wrapped his arms around Bodie, held him hard. Bodie didn't care about the bruises or the pain, all he cared about was being in Doyle's arms, feeling Doyle's heart beating in his chest, hearing his slow, steady breathing.

"I'll always forgive you," Doyle whispered in his ear. "Always love you," he said even more softly, but loud enough. Bodie tightened his arms around Doyle further.

"Ray–" he began, but Doyle cut him off with a gentle kiss, before pulling back and easing Bodie back onto the bed. As Bodie settled into the pillows, Doyle softly stroked his hair, calming and quieting him. 

"Murphy knows," Doyle said as Bodie was almost about to drift off to sleep. His wits fogged by fatigue, stress, and drugs, Bodie couldn't think what he meant.

"Knows what?" he slurred out.

"That we're, you know, together."

"Oh."

"Oh? I tell you Murph knows we're shagging and all you can say is ‘oh?'"

"Well, it does explain a few things he said earlier." Bodie looked closely at Doyle. "Anyway, Murph always was a sharp lad."

"Sharp he may be, but he didn't figure it out on his own."

"What?"

"Ruth told ‘im."

"What?" Bodie told himself it was the painkillers making him sound like a hysterical idiot, but he wasn't sure he believed it.

"Apparently all the girls know. Figured it out ages ago, from what Murph said."

" _We_ didn't figure it out ages ago."

"I know. Seems the girls are sharper than all of us."

"Bloody hell," he said, more softly.

"Yeah." Doyle sounded like he was bloody laughing. Bodie was going to murder him. Just as soon as he had a few minutes' kip. 

"I should let you sleep," Doyle said, and Bodie felt his weight leave the bed.

"Don't go." Bodie reached out and grabbed unerringly at Doyle's hand. "Bed's cold without you."

"A bed warmer: that's all I am to you," Doyle said with affection, skinning off his clothes and slid into the bed without any more urging.

"Always like my comfort." Bodie buried his face in Doyle's shoulder, sighing when Doyle rubbed tenderly at the back of his neck.

And that was how he fell asleep, Doyle's arm around him, Doyle's heat keeping him warm, Doyle's presence keeping the nightmares at bay.


	4. Epilogue

The view outside the kitchen window was ridiculously picturesque: trees and boulders covered in newly fallen snow, and the chill waters of the River Llugwy babbling beside the cottage. The turkey was roasting, its aroma spreading to every corner of the cottage. The sprouts, parsnips, and swede were all set to go on. The extra stuffing was in a pan, waiting to be popped in the cooker. It was going to be a Christmas to remember. There was only one thing left to do.

"Bodie." Doyle wiped his hands on a tea towel and poked his head into the lounge. "The potatoes needed to be on ten minutes ago."

Bodie stirred on the sofa where he'd been lying all morning. "Had a sergeant like you once. Always making me peel the spuds. Hated his guts."

"You _were_ a sergeant, you pillock. And you're the one who volunteered to do the potatoes. But if you want me to do them..."

"No, no. It's all right." Bodie stood, his hands raised in surrender. "I'll do them. Never hear the end of it otherwise, will I?"

Bodie rose from the sofa—still moving a trifle gingerly, Doyle noted—made his way to the kitchen, and began to peel potatoes. Doyle rested one hip on the countertop and watched him from the side. A week since the warehouse, a week since Bodie had got the living shite kicked out of him, a week since Doyle had got Bodie back in his life. There were moments when he still couldn't believe it had all worked out as well as it had.

"You gonna watch me peel every last potato?" Bodie frowned and waved the peeler at him. "Gonna put me off."

"Go on." Doyle waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You like it when I watch." 

"Not when I do the potatoes." Bodie gave one of his full-force mischievous smiles in return. 

"Nah, only when you do yourself," Doyle said, and was rewarded with a stifled laugh, followed by a pointed glare. He raised his hand in surrender. "All right, all right. Never let it be said I came between a man and his potatoes." Doyle leaned in and gave Bodie a peck on his still bearded cheek and then went to stretch out on the sofa himself.

Doyle knew they'd been bloody lucky that Bodie hadn't been hurt worse than he was. The swelling had mostly gone down, the soreness was fading, and the bruises, even the ones on his face, were beginning to turn the lovely sickly shades of yellow and green that bruises always did when they were nearly finished.

Cowley, the wily old bastard, had added to their luck. After putting Bodie through a gruelling debrief for two days, a precursor to the inquiry he'd have to face on the Irish ambush, the Cow had given them both two weeks off.

"After what you've been through you deserve more than a fortnight, but that's all I can spare you for," Cowley had told Bodie. "And take Doyle with you. He'll be of no use until you're back on duty. You might as well get him out from underfoot."

Fearful that Cowley's good will would vanish like a fine malt whisky on Burns night, Doyle had moved fast. He'd called an old art school friend who sometimes loaned out a cottage he had in Wales. Trev had told him the cottage was available, and they were packed up and on the road to Betws-y-Coed in hours. 

The first few days in Wales had been rough. 

In London, Bodie's pride had helped him keep up a front. In spite of the black eyes, the scraped hands and the careful way he moved, he hadn't been about to show any vulnerability to other agents or even to the Old Man. He'd even managed to hide most of his pain, physical and emotional, from Doyle. After that first night, he'd refused to talk any more about Ireland, refused to admit how much he was hurting. Only at night, when he was sleeping, did the cracks show. Doyle would wake up in the middle of the night and find Bodie clutching him as if he were his only bulwark against the hell he'd gone through in Ireland. Doyle never had the heart to pull away from him, and he'd got used to waking in the morning with all feeling gone in one arm.

In Wales, Bodie dropped all pretence, all illusion of control. He didn't come the stoic, not when Doyle was his only audience. He moved at the pace of an old man, hunched over, as if to protect himself from further injury. The first few days, it was all he could do to move from bed to sofa in the morning and back again at night. He'd nap on Doyle's lap while Doyle read one of the novels that had been left at the cottage over the years, a motley collection of detective novels, Mills and Boon romances, and trashy potboilers. Doyle credited Mills and Boon for the particularly tasty dream he'd had one night of Bodie in full Regency garb.

Bodie's dreams, on the other hand, were anything but tasty. Not that he talked about them, of course, but Doyle couldn't help but notice. He'd wake with a start from a nap in the afternoon, unable to sleep again until Doyle had gentled him by stroking his hair or the still unfamiliar beard. Or he'd wake in the night howling for Doyle, or his cousins, or someone called Robbie, and Doyle would have to hold him until his shaking had stopped and he'd drifted back into an unquiet sleep.

But in the last few days, things had improved. The nightmares came less frequently, and Bodie was moving ever more spryly. They'd even managed a few walks, into town and on a few of the less demanding paths in the nearby woods. The air was crisp with a hint of snow behind it, but not too cold for a walk. They'd got to be a bit of a local legend in town: the brave policeman recovering from his injuries and his loyal friend who was looking after him. They hadn't said a word about who they were or where Bodie's injuries had come from, so it had clearly been Trev spreading word before their arrival. Doyle was going to have a word with Trev once they got back to town. Without Trev's help, they would have had to come up with a story to explain Bodie's injuries, but Doyle would have preferred it was one of their usual fantasies, something a little further from the truth.

And today was Christmas Day. The weather had done the decent thing last night and snowed, great fluffy flakes that had stuck around and were almost impossibly beautiful. There wouldn't be a big Doyle family celebration for him this year, but he wanted to make the day as special for Bodie as possible. A big Christmas meal, complete with the crackers he'd picked up on a clandestine run into Betws-y-Coed when Bodie was napping soundly, followed by Christmas specials and movies on the ancient telly in the lounge. And then in the evening, a shared bath in the big, ancient cast-iron tub that was one of the cottage's main selling points. After that, well...they'd done little besides sleep in the big bed they shared here, and Doyle had been thinking of more than Regency clothes while flipping through those Mills and Boons. He was still tempted to treat Bodie as if he were all too breakable, but he also didn't want to deny his own desire. Or Bodie's.

Bodie returned to the lounge, flopping down beside Doyle with an exaggerated sigh that told Doyle he was more than on the mend.

"Spuds are on. Hope you enjoy ‘em."

"Told you I could do ‘em."

"Wouldn't be able to hold it over your head, then, would I? Making the invalid do the cooking."

"Prat," Doyle said, instinct making him raise his hand to give Bodie a friendly clout, but his new protectiveness towards his partner making him stay the blow. Instead, he turned it into an embrace, pulling Bodie against him and giving him a kiss that turned quickly into a snog. Until, that is, Bodie squirmed and yelped in pain. 

"Sorry," Doyle said, pulling back abruptly.

"Don't be." Bodie quickly grabbed his hand and drew him closer once again.

"You're still recovering."

"I'm not made of china, Ray. Just a bit sore."

"Says you."

"Yeah," Bodie said with a grin. "Says me."

Bodie held him, kissed him, and they managed to occupy their time pleasantly, if not too strenuously, until the meal was ready. The meal was as good as Doyle had hoped, and Bodie devoured it with something resembling his old appetite. The Christmas crackers went down a treat. Bodie ripped through the whole package but one, wearing multiple paper crowns and telling every bad joke with more than his usual zeal. And then they exchanged gifts. Doyle gave Bodie a nineteenth-century ship's log he'd found when he'd been mooching around Charing Cross shops as Bodie had been enduring the Cow's endless debrief. It was a beautiful old thing, its vellum pages covered in sketches of the African and European coasts, and Bodie had loved it as much as Doyle had hoped. Doyle, in turn, was delighted with the leather-covered sketchbook and pencils wrapped in yesterday's newspaper that Bodie must've got when he disappeared during their last trip to Betws-y-Coed.

They both spent the afternoon snoozing on the sofa, arms wrapped around each other as the telly chattered cheerily in the background. Doyle roused himself long enough to make turkey sandwiches for them both in the evening, and then poked Bodie awake again after another hour.

"Fancy a bath before bed?"

"Don't know if I can manage it," Bodie said. "Even with all this sleeping, I'm still knackered."

"Well, if you want to go to bed... Only I thought I might join you. And you were the one insisting you're not made of china."

"Was beginning to think you'd gone off me."

"Never that." Doyle leaned over and gave Bodie a kiss that made his views on that matter abundantly clear. "Was only waiting for you to feel better."

"Something's feeling better," Bodie said, pulling Doyle close enough that he could tell exactly what part of Bodie's anatomy was showing definite signs of life.

"Randy sod," Doyle said with a grin.

"Glad you've noticed."

They stumbled down the corridor to the bathroom, where Doyle filled the tub while Bodie made a game of undressing them both. A single push from Bodie, and Doyle tumbled into the tub with a splash, emerging from the water sputtering and laughing. Before he could recover, Bodie joined him, straddling his hips, running his hands along Doyle's face, his collarbone, the roundness of his shoulders. In spite of the heat of the bath, Doyle shivered at his touch and arched into it.

Bodie leaned in closer and kissed him, and Doyle drowned in sensation: the taste of him, the heat of him, the scratchiness of his beard. He pushed gently against Bodie's chest, forcing him away, and stroked his whiskered chin with his thumb.

"You ever gonna shave this off?"

"Didn't want to at first," Bodie said, then bent forward far enough to bite at Doyle's lower lip. "Thought it'd hurt, the shape my face was in."

"How about now?"

"Now?" Bodie frowned. "I'm all right now."

"Mind if I give it a whirl?"

"What, shaving me?" Bodie raised his eyebrows. "You going kinky on me, Ray?"

"Hold that thought," Doyle said with a grin. He levered himself out of the tub, streaming water behind him, and grabbed something he'd noticed in the medicine chest. Then he got back in, and this time he was the one straddling Bodie.

"Here we go," he said, waving his plunder in Bodie's face.

"You've got to be kidding," Bodie said, his doubt showing in his face.

"Trust me," Doyle said, pushing Bodie until he was sitting at the end of the tub and getting himself sorted for the task ahead. He set aside the terribly elegant straight razor he'd found and sharpened earlier in the day, and concentrated on lathering up the shaving soap with the brush as Bodie watched. He'd have to congratulate Trev on his taste in men's toiletries later. "Nothing feels as good as a proper shave with first-class shaving soap and a high-quality straight razor."

"Nothing?" Bodie said, raising an eyebrow.

"All right. Almost nothing. But it's good. You'll like it."

A few more strokes of the brush, and Doyle began to lather up Bodie's face. Bodie's expression went from sceptical to appreciative to blissful as Doyle applied the soap.

"Feels lovely, that," Bodie said, his head thrown back, his eyes closed.

"Told you."

The first step done, Doyle picked up the razor, warming the blade in the hot water of the bath like his dad had taught him so many years ago, and began to draw it across the planes of Bodie's face. From being a lark, the shave turned into a meditation on the man before him. Each stroke of the razor, each rasp of the blade led him to a new revelation about this familiar, well-loved face.

One last swipe, and he was done. He smiled at the result. Bodie lay before him, white throat exposed in a display of absolute trust, his face as beautiful as Doyle had ever seen it, in spite of the last of the bruising lurking under one eye, around the line of his chin. It was as if he'd stripped away not only the beard but also any barrier to seeing the man beneath the posturing, as if he'd revealed Bodie's true nature.

"Christ," Doyle said in wonder.

"Ugly as that, am I?" Bodie said, then opened his eyes.

"Too bloody handsome for your own good." Doyle hoped the words concealed the emotion he felt welling up inside him, swelling in his chest, making him light-headed with the impossibility of it.

"Could say the same about you." Doyle examined Bodie's expression for the piss take lurking beneath, but found only honesty and affection and something indefinable and yet as familiar as his own skin.

Words were suddenly unnecessary, were intolerable. Doyle moved towards Bodie as Bodie moved towards him, and their mouths locked together. Hands stroked water-slicked skin; tongues licked chins and earlobes. Too soon, it wasn't enough, wasn't nearly enough. Doyle took Bodie's cock in one hand, holding, squeezing him, making him harder, making his cock weep and twitch and throb.

Doyle held Bodie's gaze with his own, asking and receiving permission without a word spoken. He raised himself up on well-muscled thighs, and descended, piercing himself on Bodie's flesh. His skin threw off sparks as he thrust down, over and over, Bodie matching his every movement. Bodie caught his cock in a warm palm, and then it was all too much. He threw back his head, coming in Bodie's grasp even as he felt Bodie's flesh pulse inside him.

"Fuckin' hell, Ray," Bodie said, when he could say anything. "You're always good, but that was fantastic." 

"You inspire me, don't you." Doyle gave Bodie a long, lingering kiss before sitting back. "Now I don't know about you, but I'm getting a leg cramp."

"A romantic, that's what you are," Bodie complained, but he was smiling as he did so.

"A realist, is more like." Doyle stood and held a hand out. "You want out, or do you want to sit there and turn into a prune?"

"No sense of the moment," Bodie grumbled, but he took Doyle's hand and stepped out with him. Doyle wrapped him in a towel, one still warm from being left next to the heater, and then held him close.

"Love you, you know," he whispered into Bodie's ear. Bodie didn't respond, but simply put his head on Doyle's shoulder.

They took their time drying off, and then tumbled into the big comfortable bed, Bodie curled on his side with Doyle wrapped protectively around him.

The day, thought Doyle, had been as perfect as he had hoped for.

He'd never been comfortable with perfection. Always had to pick at it, tear the scab off, look at the half-healed flesh underneath.

"You gonna be ready to go back?" Doyle asked quietly.

"Don't rush it. We've got a week."

"Not long, a week."

"Long enough."

"Bodie..."

"It'll be okay."

"You're still getting the nightmares."

"Not as much."

"You going to talk to Ross?"

"Won't have much choice, will I?"

"You going to actually tell her anything?"

Bodie turned his head and looked at him as if he were the idiot child of idiot parents.

"All right. Bad idea."

Bodie nodded and settled back in Doyle's arms. "It's not as if you let the Queen of Cybernetics inside your head after you were shot."

"Yeah, you're right." Doyle placed his lips on the side of Bodie's neck, a gesture more protective than erotic. "You're going to have to deal with it, though. Tell me about it, if you like."

Bodie shook his head, emphatically.

"Then take a walk in the woods and tell a bloody tree, but you've got to deal with it." Doyle squeezed him tightly. "I know you, Bodie. Everyone else might think you're a great thug with the sensitivity of a rock–"

"Thanks very much."

"–but I know you, and I know this is going to eat at you if you let it."

"I'd rather eat you," Bodie said, twisting to face Doyle and kissing the side of his face.

"I'm serious, Bodie."

Bodie stopped and looked at Doyle. His face was still, and he was as solemn as Doyle had ever seen him.

"I know you're serious. And I know you mean well. But I'm going to have to sort this out on my own."

"But you will? Get it sorted?"

"I'll figure something out, Ray."

"You'd better." Doyle gave Bodie a fierce kiss and then stroked his face. "Get some sleep now, eh?"

"You're the one who wanted to talk," Bodie said, though without any real rancour in his voice.

"And now I'm the one who wants to sleep."

"No pleasing some people," Bodie said, even as he burrowed into Doyle's arms and in minutes drifted into a deep and mostly dreamless sleep.

Doyle was awake for much longer, letting the back of his hand drift occasionally across Bodie's now smooth cheek, watching over him through the darkest hours of the night.

* * *

When Bodie had entered Armagh in September, he'd been smuggled across the border in the back of a van, afraid his cover would be blown and he'd end up dead in a field. This time he arrived in an Army helicopter, surrounded by soldiers, and it was the men he'd originally come to stop who were dead.

Coming back here was madness. He knew that. No one had wanted him to come, not Cowley, not Murphy, not the commander in charge of British forces here who'd been given the unenviable job of keeping him alive and whole in Armagh. Even Doyle had his doubts, and it was Doyle who'd planted the first seeds of the idea, insisting he get his head sorted. 

No one wanted him in Ireland. Even he didn't want to be in Ireland, but it was in Ireland he knew he had to be. So he'd launched a campaign to get Cowley to help him get back here, back to Armagh.

It wasn't his first fight with Cowley in the last two months. First, he and Doyle had fought to get the next two-bedroom flat that came open. They'd won that fight, at least. Bodie had no doubt it hadn't hurt that it was now an open secret in CI5 circles that the two of them were together and the sky hadn't fallen as a result. In his more cynical moments, Bodie wondered if they were Cowley's test case for fighting Whitehall-mandated discrimination in the security services.

The fight for a shared flat had been a relative doddle; the fight to get to Armagh had been anything but. In the end, he'd had to force Cowley's hand and make the visit a condition of his staying with CI5. Only then had Cowley called in a multitude of favours and made it happen. So here he was, once again in the country that he'd always hated, to which he felt no connection, a country that nonetheless he was bound to by family and blood.

That was _how_ he'd got here. The why was more complicated. 

He reckoned he needed to perform an act of penance.

He'd long since stopped believing in the Catholic Church and its concept of God, but it seemed that he still believed in making good on the evil you'd done. In karma, if you wanted to get all Eastern about it. In his darker moments, he blamed Shusai's influence. And Doyle's. But there was sense in it, and Bodie knew he had to do something.

Not that anyone but Doyle had noticed there was anything wrong.

It was over two months since the standoff at the warehouse, nearly three since the ambush in Armagh. Physically, he was completely healed. His stamina was as good as it had ever been, and his reflexes had impressed even Jack and Brian. Mentally, he knew he was near the top of his game. The nightmares had mostly stopped, though he'd sometimes wake in the morning chasing a shadow memory of blood and fear.

He could have done what he'd done so many times before, after Liverpool, after Africa: chucked his experiences in Armagh into a room in his mental fortress, nailed the door shut, and forgotten about it. 

But he didn't seem to be able to shrug off what had happened in Ireland as he'd done so many times before. Even if he was no longer suffering through the nightmares, he couldn't stop thinking about Ireland, about what he'd done.

It started with the soldiers killed in the ambush. Their deaths weighed most heavily upon him. Especially Robbie's. He'd done some rotten things in his life, but shooting a lad, a _friend_ , whose only offence had been being in the wrong place at the wrong time, was among the rottenest. 

He'd half expected to be charged with Robbie's murder and those of the other squaddies, but Cowley's efforts had spared him that. According to the Cow, the Army had wanted him shot, stuffed, and mounted, but Cowley had waged his own battle to prevent Bodie from paying for a wrong committed while he was on assignment. The only price for his freedom, and it was a considerable one, had been Bodie's attendance at the inquiry on the Armagh ambush.

Though he was grateful to have avoided prison, there was a small voice in Bodie's heart that told him it would only have been just if he'd been locked up for taking those men's lives. A voice that complained that officers and bureaucrats were always willing to play their games, with soldiers' lives as their playing pieces. A voice that argued that, in the end, there was nothing to choose between fighting for the mercs and fighting for Queen and country except who gave you your fucking pay packet. He reckoned it was that voice he was trying to appease.

He'd done his first quixotic act of penance a week ago by visiting Robbie's grave, a sad little patch of ground in a Plaistow cemetery. There hadn't even been a headstone up yet. Bodie had had to ask the caretaker where the grave was. He'd not been able to do much there: leave a bunch of flowers; wish Robbie Godspeed, wherever he was. He didn't bother asking forgiveness, didn't expect it, didn't deserve it. Forgiveness wasn't meant for the likes of him. But the visit did calm the spectre of a young soldier that had been haunting him since the ambush.

Robbie's death had not been the only thing to affect him, though. He didn't give a toss about Dec's death, or Liam's. Even Noel's had only given him slight pause. They'd become close there, at the end, but Bodie was under no illusion as to what Noel was. Even as a boy he'd been a heartless bastard, cheerfully ordering Liam to beat up their English cousin as often as he could get away with it. The friendship he'd offered Bodie at the end hadn't come near to erasing the terror he'd put Bodie through as a boy. Nor did it allow Bodie to excuse the death and mayhem Noel had meted out over the years.

But there was one member of his family Bodie had cared about, still cared about: Mo. Bodie had drawn her into something she didn't deserve, rubbed her nose in the Troubles after they'd already cost her so much. It was yet another thing Bodie didn't think he could be forgiven for.

They'd parted on fucking awful terms, Mo as disgusted by the ambush as he was himself, and things were bound to be worse now. After all, her brothers were dead, and if she didn't know Bodie was at least partly responsible, he'd bet she had a damn good idea. There was no way this was going to end well. And yet it was also something he had to do, lance the wound and drain the poison that was spiralling through his veins. Penance. 

Not that he knew what he was going to say to Mo. Sorry seemed completely inadequate, and anything else he'd thought of sounded utterly naff. He kept hoping something would come to him, but nothing did. And time was running out. Because here he was, on the way to Mo's in the back of a canvas-covered Army truck rumbling through frozen, snow-covered fields, Doyle at his side, the four-man patrol that had been put in charge of keeping them safe sitting at the other end of the truck bed, shooting questioning looks at the scruffy pair who'd been able to command their protection.

He wished they could have done this trip differently, wished he could have taken Doyle for a spin on the Norton he'd abandoned at Noel and Liam's farm. Wished he could have swept down the roads, the winter wind in his face, Doyle's arms wrapped tight around his middle, Doyle's heat at his back. But in this place, that was impossible. Bodie and CI5 might have wiped out the local IRA brigade, but there were plenty poised to take their place, all of them eager to put Bodie's head on a stick.

He swallowed hard and felt a hand clutch at his arm. He turned to find Doyle looking at him with more concern and affection than he'd ever deserve.

Bodie gave a strained smile in return, then looked out the back of the canvas-covered truck they were bouncing around the back of.

There was one big bump and then the truck was slowing. The soldiers, young men so much like Robbie's final patrol must have been, were out of the truck and doing a sweep of the area before the truck had come to a final stop. Bodie sat there, waiting for the all clear and ignoring the looks Doyle kept shooting his way.

"You all right?"

"Do I look all right?" Bodie snapped.

"You look fucking awful."

"That's pretty much how I feel."

"Bodie." Doyle leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to do this. I know what I said about getting your head sorted, but you don't have to do _this_."

"Yeah, I do, actually. This is exactly what I have to do. Might get Ireland out of my skull, once and for all."

"If you're sure..."

"I'm sure, Ray." Bodie put a hand on top of Doyle's and gave it a quick squeeze. "Now let's get it over with."

Bodie stood and walked to the exit of the truck just as the leader of the patrol—a Corporal Peel, who seemed to like this assignment even less than his commanding officer had—appeared at the entrance flap.

"All clear, sir," he said, his eyes never stopping their scan of the horizon around them.

"I'm not a ‘sir,'" Bodie said quietly with the reflex of an enlisted man, but he didn't push the point. Bad enough that he was putting these lads in danger, having them protect a target that the IRA would love to nail.

He hopped out of the truck and took in his first view of Mo's house since she'd kicked him out nearly two months ago. Bodie was stupidly pleased to see the roof tiles he'd repaired were snow-covered but holding up well. The house looked the same as the day he'd left it except for one thing: a for sale sign pounded into the front yard.

Waving the soldiers to stay on the road and off Mo's property, he began to walk towards the front door, Doyle following automatically behind him. He was twenty feet away, right beside the flower beds he'd thrown up in, when the front door swung open.

Maureen Bodie stood in the entry to her home like a battered valkyrie defending her territory. One pale hand held her winter coat around her, and there was a pair of felt slippers on her feet.

"What are you doing here, Will?" she asked.

"Came to see you, Mo."

"You've seen me. Now take that lot," she flung her head in the direction of the soldiers, "and fuck off."

"Two minutes, Mo. Let me say my piece and then I'll go."

"No," Mo said, shaking her head, her mouth quivering but resolute.

"Hear me out now and you'll never see me again."

"I wish I'd never seen you at all. I wish you'd never come back."

"Please, Mo."

Mo stood quietly staring at him for one long minute. The minute stretched to two, and still Mo didn't speak and Bodie didn't dare move. Finally, she nodded once.

"Fine. Come in, say your piece, and leave. But the English Army stays out there."

"They know not to set foot on your property." Bodie pointed a thumb in Doyle's direction. "Can my friend come in?"

"He can, as long as he's quiet." With that she turned and entered the house.

Bodie shot a look to Doyle, who raised his eyebrows, but otherwise remained silent. Bodie followed Mo into the place he'd called home for over two months. Unlike the outside, the inside of the house had definitely changed. Each room he passed on the way through the house was full of half-packed boxes, the rooms' contents piled up around them. Mo led them back to the kitchen, where she sat on the only chair not taken up with boxes and crockery.

"You moving house?"

"You might say that," Mo said, glancing at the clutter around her.

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" she wailed. Just for a moment, the brittle shell that Mo had surrounded herself with seemed to crack, revealing the vulnerable woman beneath. But before the shell could crack entirely, she set her shoulders and recovered her composure. "I'm just sick of it. Sick of the Troubles, sick of the IRA and the RUC. Sick of it all. If I stay, I'm going to die of the sickness. So I'm leaving."

"Where will you go?"

"Canada, not that it's any of your business. I've got some friends there, a few distant relations. They say that life's better there, and Christ knows it can't be worse. I've nothing left to tie me here but a few gravestones." Mo's words had the feel of a rehearsed speech, something she'd told herself and others many times.

"Mo..."

"What do you want, Will?" Mo cut off whatever pointless words of comfort he'd been about to say.

"I want to apologize."

"Apologize?" Mo's voice was loud with disbelief, but Bodie didn't allow himself to stop.

"I want to say how sorry I am."

"Sorry for what? For killing those poor soldiers? For contaminating Jilly's room with more death? For killing Noel and Liam?"

Bodie felt Doyle move in close behind him, his ever-present guardian angel.

"Noel liked you, there at the end. Did you know that?"

"Yeah." Bodie swallowed once. "I liked him too, Mo."

"Is that why he's dead?" Mo stood and Bodie could tell she'd gone past the point of being rational, was functioning on pure emotion. "'Cause you couldn't face being friends with a member of the IRA?"

"He's dead because he and the others were going to set a bomb in the middle of London. Because Liam had a gun to my head and they were going to kill me. Because even if I liked him, he and Liam and Dec were murdering bastards and they had to be stopped."

"You call this an apology?" Mo's voice cracked and broke on her last word like a rotten roof tile. She raised one shaking hand to her mouth, and Bodie could see a few stray tears seep out the corner of both eyes.

"I'm sorry for the pain I caused you. I'm sorry Noel's dead. I'm even sorry Liam's dead. But I'm not sorry I stopped them. I'm not sorry that bomb didn't go off."

"Get out of my house." Mo's voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the strength in it. 

"Mo..."

"Out, Will. Please." 

Bodie stared at his cousin, at the as-yet-unshed tears welling up in her eyes, at the grey that had almost completely taken over her hair, at the new lines of suffering etched into her face, and realized that the only thing he could do here would be to cause her more pain. She'd had pain enough for several lifetimes, and he would not be the one to cause her further distress.

Without a word, he waved Doyle out of the kitchen, then paused himself at the room's threshold. "Whatever else you may think about me, Mo, I want you to know that I wish you well." He turned and left the room before she could respond.

Doyle was waiting for him on the front step, looking at him with concern.

"I'm all right, Doyle," he said, responding to a question that Doyle hadn't needed to ask.

"Are you?"

"Yeah, I actually think I am." He took a deep breath and took one last look around the farm. "Now, let's get out of this fucking country."

They clambered back into the truck, and the members of the patrol climbed in after them. Bodie ignored the looks of the soldiers, the ones that asked what sort of a loon they'd been ordered to protect, asking them to risk life and limb for a visit that lasted a few minutes at best. He didn't care what they thought. Confronting Mo had been one of the hardest things he'd done, but it had been necessary. He'd found not forgiveness or absolution, but a renewed conviction that he'd done the rights thing, no matter how difficult it was.

There was a nudge in his side and he turned his head to see green eyes staring hard at him with concern and an emotion that could only have been love. He couldn't help it. As tough as the day had been, as these last few months had been, he couldn't help but smile. It took a minute, but in the end, Doyle smiled back.

"You're a madman. You know that, don't you?" Doyle said, with a roll of his eyes.

He leaned towards Doyle's ear. "Good thing you love me, then, isn't it?" he said, trusting the rumble of the truck's engines to obscure his words from the soldiers sitting mere feet away.

"I have to," Doyle said, his voice equally low. "No one else would be crazy enough to take you on."

"We're a matched pair, then." Bodie nudged Doyle's knee with his own.

The truck hit another bump, throwing him against Doyle. He didn't move away, but stayed there, leaning against Doyle's shoulder, taking comfort in Doyle's solid presence at his side.

He thought about the journey ahead of them—truck to Newtownhamilton; chopper to Belfast; plane to London. They'd be tucked up in their new flat by evening. A meal from the neighbourhood chippy—after this day Bodie reckoned he was owed fish and chips, no matter Doyle's complaints about fried grub—a few cans of lager, then to bed. Bed, where he could shag Doyle rotten. And before, during, and after, he'd tell the silly bastard how much he loved him. There would be no holding back, no protecting himself from possible hurt. Not when he'd seen yet again how short life was. Not when he'd had so much time to contemplate how essential Doyle was to him.

There'd be loving tonight, and reassurance, and then he'd sleep. Sleep in Doyle's protective hold, an embrace that would banish all nightmares, all terrors, leaving room only for dreams of present joy and future happiness.


End file.
